SPRING LOVE

The Gaylord breeze brushed my face with the scent of melting snow and the promise of lilacs. Spring was a hesitant guest here, teasing warmth one day, then slapping you with a blast of icy wind the next. But even the chill couldn’t penetrate the warmth that bloomed in my chest whenever I thought of Lidia. Lately, that has been all the time. My name is Bilal, and I’m a poet. I work at the local bookstore. I love the smell of old paper, the hushed whispers of turning pages, and the quiet camaraderie of fellow bookworms. And, of course, I loved that it brought Lidia into my orbit.

The insistent chirping of my phone yanked me from the clutches of sleep, a sleep I desperately clung to. Because sleep, and only sleep, offered me her presence. I fumbled for the phone, squinting at the bright screen. 7:00 AM. Another day. Another day without her.

I silenced the alarm and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. It was the same, predictable ritual. Every morning, the memory of her, so vivid in my dreams, would begin to haunt me. I’d consciously push her away, telling myself she was just a figment, a phantom limb aching with longing. “It can never be,” I’d whisper to the empty room. “She’s married.”

And for a few hours, it would work. I’d go through the motions of my day–work, errands, forced social interactions–with a practiced ease. I’d laugh at jokes, offer advice to colleagues, and even manage a passable impression of someone who was content, perhaps even happy. But it was all a performance, a carefully constructed frontage designed to keep the truth buried deep inside. The truth was, I was desperately lonely. And the only time I wasn’t lonely was when I was dreaming of Lidia.

She first came in last autumn, a woman sculpted from soft curves and quiet elegance. Her dark hair was always pulled back in a loose bun, revealing high cheekbones and eyes that held the vastness of a star-studded sky. She was refined, sophisticated, and radiated a warmth that chased away the impending cold chill. She was looking for Sylvia Plath. I found her a worn copy, and as I handed it to her, our fingers brushed. A jolt, subtle yet undeniable, shot through me. I told myself it was just static electricity, a trick of the dry autumn air. But I knew, deep down, it was something more.

Lidia started coming in regularly after that. Always on a Tuesday afternoon. She’d browse the poetry section, her fingers tracing the spines of the books like she was memorizing their secrets. We’d talk about poetry, about life, about the quiet beauty of northern Michigan. I learned she was married, that her husband, Mark, was a doctor, often away on conferences. She never complained, but I sensed a loneliness in her eyes, a yearning for something more than what her life offered.

I, on the other hand, poured my yearning into my poems. They were filled with images of hidden gardens, whispered confessions under moonlit skies, and the aching beauty of unspoken desires. They were, undeniably, about Lidia. I never showed them to her, of course. The thought terrified me.

Then came the day she asked me about my writing. “I see you always tucked away in the corner,” she said, her voice soft. “Are you working on something?”

I stammered, mumbled something about a “work in progress,” and nearly knocked over a stack of books. Lidia just smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. “I’d love to read something sometime,” she said.

That night, I barely slept. I agonized over which poem to show her. Should I choose something subtle, hinting at my feelings without being too obvious? Or should I be bold, lay my heart bare on the page? In the end, I wrote a new one. It was called “Tuesday Afternoon,” and it captured the feeling of her presence in the bookstore, the way the light seemed to bend around her, the unspoken connection that hummed between us.

I printed it out on a piece of paper and brought it to the bookstore the following Tuesday, my heart pounding like a drum solo. But Lidia didn’t come.

Wednesday passed, then Thursday. I started to imagine the worst. Had Mark found out about my infatuation? Had she decided I was just a foolish, lovesick boy? Had I completely misread the signals?

Finally, on Friday, she walked in. She looked tired, her eyes shadowed. “I’m so sorry I missed Tuesday,” she said, her voice hushed. “My mother was ill. I had to go to Detroit.”

Relief washed over me, so potent it almost knocked me off my feet. I handed her the poem, my hand trembling slightly. “I wrote this for you,” I said, the words barely a whisper.

She took the paper, her fingers brushing mine again, and her eyes widened as she read. The silence stretched as I waited for her reaction. Finally, she looked up, her eyes filled with a mixture of emotions I couldn’t quite decipher.

“It’s beautiful, Bilal,” she said softly. “Truly beautiful.”

She didn’t say anything else, just folded the poem carefully and tucked it into her purse. She bought a book of Rilke’s sonnets and left, leaving me standing there, breathless and confused.

The weeks that followed were a blur of stolen glances, whispered conversations, and the growing, undeniable tension between us. We walked through the awakening forests, the air alive with birdsong and the scent of pine. We sat by the shores of Otsego Lake, watching the sun dip below the horizon. And with every shared moment, the space between us grew smaller, the unspoken words louder.

Then, one rainy afternoon, as I was closing the bookstore, Lidia appeared. She was wearing a raincoat; her hair plastered to her forehead. “Bilal,” she said, her voice trembling. “I need to talk to you.”

I led her into the back room. She turned to face me; her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said. “I can’t keep pretending.”

My heart lurched. “What do you mean?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“I’m in love with you, Bilal,” she said, the words tumbling out like a dam had broken. “I have been for months. But I’m married. I have a responsibility.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. I reached out, took her hand in mine. Her skin was cold, clammy. “I’m in love with you, too, Lidia,” I confessed, the words I had held back for so long finally spilling out.

We stood there for a long moment, our hands intertwined, the silence broken only by the drumming of the rain against the roof. Then, she pulled away.

“This can’t happen,” she said, her voice firm despite the tears streaming down her face. “I can’t leave Mark. He’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve this.”

I knew she was right. But knowing didn’t make it any easier.

“I understand,” I said, my voice thick with emotion.

She looked at me, her eyes filled with pain. “I have to go,” she said. “I can’t see you anymore.”

She turned and walked out, leaving me standing alone in the back room, the scent of old books suddenly suffocating.

That was three weeks ago. I haven’t seen her since. I still go to the bookstore, still shelf books, and help customers. But the joy is gone. The bookstore feels empty, lifeless. The colors seem grey, the sounds muffled.

My poems have become darker, filled with images of loss, longing, and the bitter taste of unrequited love. I try to forget her, to erase her from my mind. Every morning, I wake up determined to move on, to rebuild my life. I tell myself that she was just a dream, a fleeting fantasy.

But then night falls again, and I find her laughing in my dreams. I see her standing in the bookstore, bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun. I hear her voice, soft and melodic, whispering my name. I feel her hand in mine, a jolt of electricity that sends shivers down my spine.

And I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that I will never truly be free of her. She is etched into my soul, a permanent scar, a beautiful, painful reminder of a love that could never be.

The lilacs are in full bloom now, their sweet fragrance filling the air. They are a reminder of the beauty that still exists in the world, even in the face of heartbreak. But every time I smell their scent, I am reminded of Lidia, of her dark hair pulled back in a loose bun, of her eyes that held the vastness of a star-studded sky.

And I know that even though my mind dismisses her every morning, my heart will continue to search for her, to yearn for her, until the day I die. Because some loves, like the scent of lilacs in spring, are impossible to forget. They linger in the air, a constant reminder of what was, what could have been, and what will never be. And in Gaylord, Michigan, in the whisper of the wind through the pines, I hear her name, a soft echo that will forever haunt my dreams.