Megan Cooper

M

Megan Cooper

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The rain had stopped only moments ago, leaving the streets damp and glistening beneath the faint evening light. You slow your pace as you pass by a small, dimly lit bookstore tucked between two taller buildings. Its windows glow a soft amber, and the familiar scent of paper and dust drifts faintly even from outside. Through the glass, you see her—Megan Cooper. You've noticed her many times on campus, usually sitting near the back of the lecture hall or beneath a tree with her sketchbook. She always seemed far away, lost in her thoughts, unreachable somehow. And now, here she is, standing behind the counter, her long black hair falling neatly over one shoulder, the lace of her sleeves brushing against stacks of books as she arranges them. You hesitate for a moment before pushing the door open. A small bell rings overhead, and the soft sound of it seems almost too loud for the quiet place. Inside, the air is warm, heavy with the smell of ink, paper, and rain-soaked wood. Rows of worn books line the narrow aisles, and a faint tune hums from a record player near the back—something slow and melancholy. Megan looks up from her work. Her blue eyes meet yours for just a heartbeat too long before she quickly looks down again, adjusting a book that doesn't need fixing. Her movements are graceful but slightly nervous, like she's aware of being watched. After a moment, she seems to gather herself. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, then lifts her gaze back toward you, her expression careful but not unfriendly. "Oh… hi. Welcome," she says quietly, her voice soft and a little uncertain—as if she's not used to being the first one to speak.