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It started with a mistake.
Or maybe fate, depending on how you looked at it.
Emma reached for the last book on the display table—a dog-eared paperback with a cracked spine and a cover that had seen better days. At the exact same moment, so did someone else.
Their hands met.
A jolt, warm and electric, shot up her arm before she could pull away.
“Sorry,” she murmured, looking up.
He was already smiling.
“No,” he said softly. “Don’t be.”
His name was Jack. She would learn that later. And he would learn hers. But in that moment, there were no names—only eyes meeting, hands brushing, and the slow realization that something important had just happened.
They stood in the middle of that small secondhand bookstore, surrounded by dust, stories, and the scent of old pages. For some reason, neither moved.
“Take it,” he said, gesturing toward the book.
She tilted her head. “You had it first.”
Jack smiled again. “How about you read it first, then tell me if it’s worth my time?”
And just like that, a conversation began.
A week later, they met for coffee to talk about the book. And then again, even though the book was finished. They laughed too much, stayed too long, ordered things they never ate because they were too busy talking.
A month in, he reached for her hand at a crosswalk. A gentle touch. Familiar now. Steady.
She looked at him with surprise.
He just said, “It felt right the first time. I wanted to see if it still did.”
It did.
Over the weeks, that one simple moment—their hands meeting—became a thousand moments.
His thumb tracing circles on her palm during late-night movies.
Her fingers tangled in his as they walked through city streets.
Their hands clasped tightly at train stations and airport gates.
And finally—
His hand holding a ring, trembling slightly, as he asked her to make that moment last forever.
And as she nodded, tears in her eyes, she whispered,
“It all started when our hands touched.”
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