I met him in the “Maybe” section.

I met him in the “Maybe” section.

It was a real place, which was the first joke. A narrow aisle in a secondhand bookstore, squeezed between Self-Help and Travel. A crooked sign above it read MAYBE, written in marker that had started to fade.

He was already there, pretending to browse. Not reading, not choosing, just hovering with a book half-out, unwilling to commit to holding it. When I stepped into the aisle, he shifted to give me space, then didn’t leave. That was the first maybe.

He picked up a novel and frowned at the back cover.

“People who write these summaries make everything sound like a warning,” he said.

I laughed because I knew that voice. Not his. Mine.

I reached for a book I didn’t want. He reached for the same one a second later and paused, hand hovering.

“You can have it,” I said.

“Maybe I don’t want it,” he said. Then he smiled, quick and quiet, surprised by his own honesty.

We stayed in that aisle longer than we needed to. We traded lines the way people do when they don't know if they want to be involved. He told me he’d moved cities twice in one year. I told him I’d become good at leaving before the goodbye. He said he wasn’t sure he was the type who stayed. I said I wasn’t sure I’d let someone stay.

Two maybes, side by side, pretending they weren’t making a deal.

A woman called from the front counter, saying something about closing soon. The store lights brightened by a fraction. He slid the book back into place with care, returning it to the shelf.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“I should say no,” I said.

“I should leave you alone,” he said.

We stood there, long enough for both of us to hear how much we didn’t mean it.

I walked past him toward the counter. He didn’t stop me. I slowed anyway. He matched it. At the door, he was beside me again, not agreeing to anything, not denying it either.

Outside, the street was loud and ordinary, cars passing. He glanced down at my hand, then back to my face, as if he understood the cost of getting it wrong. He took it anyway. I didn't stop him.

And we walked out together. In the nearby coffee. Then in his hotel room.

Later, when someone asked if I knew him, I searched for the right tense. Had. Have. Almost.

I said maybe.

And this time it sounded like the beginning of something neither of us was ready to name.