Chapter 1: Before the Bell Rings

There’s something sacred about closing time.

The clink of cups being washed. The smell of cinnamon fading into vanilla. The sound of soft jazz winding down like a curtain call. It’s the quiet hour, when even the books seem to exhale.

I like this part of the day.

I leaned against the counter of my family’s bookstore café, flipping through the last few pages of a novel I’d already read twice. My fingers hovered on a sentence like it might change if I read it slow enough.

“Even if he forgot her name, her touch would still linger in his heartbeat.”

Mmm. Too poetic to be realistic. But good. Four out of five stars.

I closed the book and made a note in my rating journal—Volume 74. It’s not weird. Probably. I’ve read hundreds of romance novels. Western, Japanese, Korean. Tragedies, rom-coms, historical slow burns, contemporary fluff, the “accidental roommates” ones that always end with someone catching a cold and someone else blushing while making soup.

I don’t discriminate.

Love is love. And I love love.

I just… haven’t had any of my own.

Yet.

“Souji,” my mom called from the back, “if you’re going to stand around sighing like a tragic prince, at least sweep while you do it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I called back, dragging the broom dramatically.

My name is Souji Natsume. I’m sixteen, and my only hobby is love. Not the real kind—the fictional kind. Real love requires risk. Vulnerability. Conversation. Fictional love? It’s structured. Predictable. There’s rhythm. There’s tension. There are answers if you look hard enough.

Real love doesn’t come with page numbers.

I swept up the corner by the window, where someone had spilled sugar earlier, and let my mind wander. School starts in a week. New uniform, new school, new classmates. A clean slate.

I’m not shy. People just don’t usually talk to the guy buried in a book.

In middle school, I had two best friends. One guy, one girl. They both moved away in different directions. I haven’t made new friends since. I’ve been... busy. Reading.

But maybe this year will be different.

Maybe I’ll meet someone who gets it. Someone who talks about romance tropes like I do. Someone who sees the moments between the moments.

Or maybe I’ll get roped into group projects and be asked things like, “Are you always this quiet?” and “Wait, you’ve never dated anyone?”

That happens too.

“Did you recommend a book to that college girl from yesterday?” Mom asked, walking back out with a tray of dishes.

“She wanted something emotionally messy with an ending that hurts but makes you stronger. I gave her Forget Me Always.”

“She came back in today. Said it destroyed her.”

“That means it worked.”

Mom smiled, shaking her head. “You really do have a gift.”

If you call “emotional damage via paperback” a gift, then sure.

The sun was starting to dip, painting the shelves with amber light. The café part of the shop was empty, but the books still looked full of life. The air smelled like hazelnut and paper and possibility.

Sometimes I wonder what my story would look like.

Not a flashy one. Not a fantasy, or a fanservice-filled romcom. Maybe just… a quiet, awkward love. Something small. Something warm. Something that doesn’t need a twist to feel real.

But those stories usually start with change. With a character walking through the door. With something unexpected.

The bell above the front door chimed.

I turned, expecting one of our regulars.

Instead, a woman stepped in. Late twenties maybe. White coat, worn leather book bag, elegant posture. She looked around like she already belonged here.

She met my eyes and smiled.

“Hello,” she said. “I heard this place has good romance recommendations.”

My brain short-circuited.

“Uh... yes. We specialize in heartbreak and recovery. Would you like tea with that?”

Smooth. Nailed it.

She laughed softly. “I’ll take both.”

And just like that, I had no idea what kind of story I was in anymore.