Alfie nods, settling back in his chair. "Now imagine taking the objects out of a room, one by one. The first thing you notice is the absence—you miss what you've taken away. But then, you start noticing what's left more than ever before."

I lean in, hanging onto his words, feeling like he's offering me a key to a door I've been afraid to open.

"You see, when things are taken from us, what remains takes on greater value," he continues, his voice steady. "If there's a chessboard in that nearly empty room, you're far more likely to play chess. Loss teaches us to focus on what's still here. What we lose in breadth, we gain in depth. The thing with love is, it’s a risk. We open our hearts knowing they'll eventually break. But that's the paradox of it all: the very thing that makes love terrifying is what makes it extraordinary.”

“Every heartbeat we share with another is both a countdown and a gift, each moment precious because it cannot last. To love is to dance on the edge of loss. But to never love? That's like keeping a bird in its cage, wings folded, never knowing the glory of flight. Better to soar and fall than to never leave the ground. Because sometimes, in the space between holding on and letting go, we find pieces of ourselves we never knew were missing.”

His words settle over me like truth itself, filling the room with unspoken understanding. I nod slowly, feeling as though something deep within me has shifted.

"I hope someday I can write something that'll mean as much as her story means to you," I say, almost to myself.

Alfie's eyes soften, and he smiles—the kind of smile that feels like a blessing.

"You already have, Nora. And you will again. You have the heart for it—just don't ever stop letting it lead you." He pauses, his voice gentling. "Most of the time writing isn't about saying the right thing. It's about letting yourself say what's real. Just give yourself permission to feel and the words will come."

He's right.

When I write, I'm facing my fears—my anxieties, my feelings. I'm putting them into words, giving them life, acknowledging their existence. Just like with Nate, maybe it's not about finding the perfect words, but about being brave enough to speak the truth.

I don't think Alfie realises the gift he's given me. It's more than just wisdom about writing—it's a glimpse of the kind of love and purpose I've always dreamed of. And for the first time in a long while, it feels possible. Maybe that's why, when I finally leave the bookstore, my steps are lighter despite the weight of everything unsaid between me and Nate.

The universe, it seems, has other plans for my newfound peace.