**Diary Entry**
I was in a rushI always am. That November afternoon, I dashed down Goldsmith Street with my coat half-open and a folder of papers threatening to spill with every step. The drizzle had started as a whisper, but within seconds, it thickened into a downpour, blurring the pavements. I cursed under my breath. My plan was simple: get home, shower, and finish tomorrows presentation. But the rain left no choiceI had to take shelter.
I pushed open the door of a little bookshop-café, the kind that feels plucked from another time, with worn wooden furniture and the scent of freshly ground coffee. Shaking the water from my hair, I approached the counter.
A black tea, please, I said, still not looking up.
Not a coffee person? A mans voice, amused and curious.
I lifted my gaze. Behind the counter stood a tall man in his thirties, with dark brown hair, stubble, and a smile that felt strangely familiar.
Not when I need to think, I replied, a touch defensive. Coffee makes me jittery.
Black tea it is, then. Though I should warn youmost people at this table lose the battle to coffee, he said, gesturing to the nearly empty shop.
For the first time that day, I smiled. And you are?
Oliver Whitmore, he said, extending a hand over the counter. Owner, barista, and hopeless bookworm.
I introduced myself, took my tea, and settled by the window. The rain hammered against the glass as if desperate to get in. As I tried to focus on my notes, Oliver approached with a book in hand.
If you dont mind I think youd like this. It was an old novel, with blue covers and gold lettering.
How do you know what Id like?
I dont. But when someone rushes in from the rain, orders tea, and wears that dont talk to me expression they usually need a good story more than anything.
I accepted it, surprised. The sound of rain and the aroma of coffee from nearby tables blended into something warm, comforting.
Do you always work here? I asked after a while.
Only when it rains, he said, enigmatic.
I laughed, thinking it a joke. It wasnt.
The next few days, the city returned to its usual rhythm, and I to my hectic routine. But one Tuesday, another storm drove me back into the bookshop. Oliver was there, as if expecting me.
You again, he said, sliding me tea without being asked.
The rain again, I replied.
That day, we talked more. I learned Oliver had inherited the shop from his grandfatheronce just a bookshop, until he added the café to give people excuses to stay longer. Oliver, in turn, discovered I worked as an architect at a demanding firm where twelve-hour days were the norm.
Sounds exhausting, he remarked.
It is, I admitted. But I dont know how to do anything but rush.
Oliver looked at me with a calm that disarmed me. Sometimes, you have to let life catch up.
From then on, rain became our ally. Every time the first drops fell, I found a reason to walk down Goldsmith Street. Sometimes I read in silence while Oliver tended to customers; other times, we talked about books, films, or travels neither of us had taken.
One December evening, Oliver made an offer: Were closing early this Saturday. Some musicians are coming to play jazz here. Fancy joining?
I hesitatedspontaneity wasnt my forte. But I said yes.
That night, the shop glowed with candlelight, shelves casting long shadows. Oliver saved me a seat in the front row. During the concert, our knees brushedaccidentally, or not.
Afterward, he poured me a glass of wine and sat beside me. Ive seen you rush in so many times to escape the rain, he said. But I think you were running from something else.
I stayed quiet, startled by how right he was.
Maybe, I admitted. And maybe here, I forget what.
When we left, the rain had returned. Oliver walked me to the door.
I dont have an umbrella, I said.
Neither do I. But if we run, well make it to the corner before were soaked.
We didnt run. We crossed the street slowly, laughing as the water soaked our hair and clothes. At the corner, before saying goodbye, Oliver murmured, Dont wait for the rain to come back.
I smiled. Ill try.
I didnt return the next day. Or the one after. But on Sunday, under clear skies, I walked into the bookshop.
Oliver feigned surprise. Wheres the rain?
Today I brought it with me.
There was no tea that day. No coffee. Just a long, unhurried conversationcomfortable silences, glances that spoke louder than words.
When night fell, Oliver showed me a corner of the shop he never shared with customers: a small room with a window overlooking the river.
My grandfather used to read here when it rained, he explained. Said the sound of water reminded him everything keeps moving.
I pressed my forehead to the glass. Maybe thats what I love about this place it reminds me I can stop.
Oliver stepped closer, so slowly I felt his breath before I saw him beside me. You can stop and stay.
I turned to face him. Just then, rain began tapping the window, as if waiting for its cue.
Seems the skys on our side, he whispered.
Seems so, I repliedbefore kissing him. Soft, warm, tasting of coffee and black tea. A kiss in no rush at all.
Since then, every rain brought us back together. But it didnt matter if it stormed or shinedthe bookshop on Goldsmith Street became our place. In that corner by the river, among books and steaming cups, Emily Carter and Oliver Whitmore learned that sometimes, love doesnt arrive with the sun
But when the rain makes you stay a little longer.
