Whispers Of The Heart

Chapter 23

Emery Rose

Grayson hasn't spoken for the last thirty minutes, and I'm starting to lose my mind.

I'm sitting on the couch, working my way through an entire tub of ice cream, while he sits on the couch opposite me, staring out the window. The rain has started to fall lightly, and the gentle patter of raindrops against the glass adds to the soothing atmosphere.

I have to admit, bookstores really do have a calming effect. The only light comes from the lamp next to the couch and the twinkling Christmas lights outside. Just a minute ago, the sun was shining, casting a warm glow through the windows, but now the sky is overcast, shrouding the town in a gentle gray mist. Welcome to Gracefield, where the weather changes on a whim.

Even in the rain, this place is beautiful. The rhythmic patter of raindrops against the window panes creates a soothing soundtrack, perfectly complemented by the scent of old books and fresh paper. Being surrounded by shelves upon shelves of stories is comforting, a sanctuary from the chaos outside.

But Grayson is ruining it.

One minute he's smiling and chatting, and the next he's completely silent, lost in his own world. The sudden shift is jarring, unsettling.

I glance over at him, unable to resist. His face is a mask of concentration, eyes staring off into the distance, seemingly oblivious to everything around him.

The contrast is stark, almost surreal. It's hard not to be drawn to him, to wonder what's going through his mind. His silence feels heavy, almost oppressive, threatening to shatter the fragile peace of this place.

I try to focus on the comfort of the bookstore, the gentle ambiance, but my thoughts keep circling back to Grayson. His unpredictable moods are like the weather in Gracefield- impossible to predict, and just as likely to turn sunny as stormy in an instant.

And I can't stand the silence. I hate it.

I immediately get up from the couch and move to the one where he's sitting.

He finally tears his gaze away from the window to glance at me. Sitting down next to him, I continue eating my ice cream. "Are you sure you don't want any?" I ask, offering him a spoonful.

He shakes his head and looks back outside the window. I suppress a groan of frustration and tap his shoulder to get his attention. He turns to me, his expression showing I'm starting to annoy him.

"You used to talk a lot when we were little," I say, taking another bite of ice cream.

His eyes drop to my lips, and I see him inhale deeply, his jaw tightening. "That's not true."

"It is true," I insist gently. "We used to go to the tree house and talk for hours."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You would talk for hours" he corrects. "I just listened."

I pause, reflecting on his words. He's right. Grayson was always a good listener, absorbing every word I said with an intensity that made me feel truly heard. I smile at the memory, a warm glow spreading through me.

"We should go to that tree house again," I suggest, the idea sparking a glimmer of excitement. My dad built it for my sister and me, but she was always too afraid of heights to enjoy it. Instead, I spent countless hours there with Grayson, sharing secrets and dreams under the canopy of leaves.

Grayson hesitates, his gaze softening as he looks at me. The silence stretches between us, filled with unspoken words and lingering memories. Finally, with a soft but firm voice, he asks, ""What time should I come over to your house tomorrow?"