She ordered her usual muffin and coffee as she did every Wednesday, and he watched her hair whip around her, her eyes follow the shelves of books that lead her out of the shop. He wanted her to turn back around. He stands there and stares for a while. All he can do is work his shift and smile as she orders, and give her a friendly word or two. And he does it, just to hear her voice or a chuckle from her.
Tonight he dreams of her eyes, her beautiful, warm eyes, her cascading strands of hair that lay straight past her shoulders. He dreams of her lips, her voice, her laugh, and he wishes she would appear on a day other than Wednesday and order a different muffin, a different coffee, and instead of her turning around soon after, she would stick around for a little while.
He wants to grab her hand, but she’s too far away and his hand is clammy and  shaky, and her hands are soft and steady. While she is confident in her walk, he slumps and hides away. She smiles brightly an all teeth dazzling grin, while he curves his lips upwards slightly. She’s too far away and his hand is too clammy for her to grab it and hold on; grab it and not slip away.  Because that’s what you need after all. You need a hand to hold, someone to hold on to, and someone who will hold onto you.
So he goes home and wonders if his blood is even still blood. Or if now what runs through his veins is whiskey. He only drinks whiskey of course, it’s the color of her eyes.

As the amber liquid travels down his throat he feels the simmer as it begins to erupt. He’s burning, everything inside him is burning. A fire is scorching his lungs and soul with her name screaming round and round his mind. He’s burning. He thinks that maybe his chest should be bleeding, his knees should be giving out, or he should start shouting and screaming and yelling because he wants something to show that what is happening to him is unfair and wrong and it hurts; it hurts. That what is happening is really wrong, very wrong, and please, someone help him fix it; help him, help him fix himself. This is his call for help. His silent screaming. He could grab her hand. He could do it. He will do it. He has to do it. He can’t do it. Not now, not ever. He’s too gawky and lanky. And she’s mesmerizing and petite.  He rests his head; maybe he will have a good dream on this cloudless night. It’s a Tuesday. He checks the calendar. Checks the internet. Checks with his co-workers. She’s here. This time he does it. He reaches for her hand and grabs it tight. He smiles fully, teeth displayed.
His eyes are dancing; he makes sure that every single atom of her existence knows he loves her. He is so in love with her. Just with the intertwined fingers and a genuine smile. That he is so in love with her. That night his hand is tingling and he has a grin plastered to his face. He did it. He grabbed her hand. 
He talks to her about the books. She likes mysteries, action and adventure, and science fiction. He shows her the stories, the mysteries, then the actions and adventure, followed by the science fiction. She’s smiling, she’s enjoying his company, vanishing from the shelves and appearing by his side: he notes she never stays still for long.  She talks of stars and clouds and running in the rain and dancing in the streets, each expressed with wild movements: she never stays still for long. He calls her a loon, she doesn’t like it, so she gives him small slaps on the arm. It’s followed by giggling and her bright eyes shining at him. He doesn’t mind.
They explore the book shop and each other forever and ever, each step faster than the one before, because if they slowed down for one second, if his hand became clammy and she slipped away, it would all be over. And he would never let that happen. He is so in love with her.
Analyzing a novel, “The thorns are symbolic, the rose is beautiful but it hurts because of the thorns, lovely things can hurt.” She explains. He rolls his eyes, gently grasps the book and shuts it away on the shelf and her words out of his mind.
“I hate symbolism.”
Symbolism. He didn't like any of those things. He didn’t like cloudless days and silly things like that.
That night was stormy, with winds bustling and howling. She came over with some books and candles.  They cuddle together, cocooning themselves in blankets and duvets with the both of them drinking hot chocolate and making shadow puppets in the candle light. They stay like this. He doesn’t mind. Their minds drifting aimlessly and endlessly. She can never stay too still for long though. After the storm, the night is cloudless, and it stays that the next day. 
It’s Wednesday, and she comes in. His hands are clammy and his eyes are throbbing and his chest is aching. She orders her usual muffin and coffee as she did every Wednesday, and her hair whips around her, her eyes follow the shelves of books that lead her out of the shop.
He’s burning. It can't be true. (He knows it is.) It can’t ever be true. His mind could never imagine it.  His hopes are falling like the tears down his face, the empty skies as empty as his heart feels.
Now he doesn’t like dreaming and silly things like that.