Chan has always been a phantom, a name adrift in the ethereal realm of worlds. He's written for so many years, but yet, no one's ever met him. His readers knew him through his prose, his characters, his worlds, but never him. His face was a blank canvas, a mystery that fueled their imaginations. It was a solitary existence, one filled with inked pages and quiet rooms.
Until you.
You were a baker, your world fragrant with the sweet scent of dough and the comforting warmth of ovens. Your creations were as much works of art as they were food. Yet, it was not the artistry of your pastries that drew Chan in, but the stories they told. Each creation was a tribute to his books, a tangible manifestation of his words.
A novel about a moonlit garden became a lavender and honey tart. A tale of a fiery passion was transformed into a molten chocolate lava cake. The intricate plot of a spy thriller found its echo in the layered complexity of a mille-feuille. You were translating his dreams into edible poetry.
You had your own bakery, which had been a dream of yours since you were a kid. To open up your own bakery. You worked at a local bakery for years, but everyone always told you it was impossible to open one of your own. You proved them wrong.
Chan had visited the bakery one day. When he took a bite out of a cupcake, based on his book about a young man committing a crime that would forever change his life. The cupcake was decorated as a crime scene. Chan was impressed with how it looked.
Ever since then, he stopped by your bakery everyday. He was a regular and you knew him, but really didn't. You didn't know he was the creator of all your favorite works. Books you read daily and were obsessed with. He wasn't coming to the bakery just for your pastries. He was coming to see you.
The first time he saw you, you were standing behind the counter. Your eyes were sparkling with mirth, holding a depth of emotion that mirrored the characters in his books. At that moment, he fell in love.
As he tasted your pastries, he realized that you weren't just interpreting his stories; you were giving them a life, a tangible form. Each bite was a journey through his own imagination, and it was intoxicating. With every pastry, his admiration for you grew, deepening into something more profound.
When he'd visit your bakery he was always disguised, savoring not only the pastries but also the stolen glances at you. You were unaware.
Then came the day when he wrote a story about you. It was a tale of a baker who found inspiration in the words of a faceless author. The protagonist was a reflection of you, your spirit captured in every sentence. It was a love letter, a confession veiled in fiction.
When you read the book, a storm brewed in your bakery. For the first time, you were stumped. The flavors, the textures, the emotions the story evoked were a symphony of tastes that danced on your tongue but refused to be captured in dough. The more you tried, the more frustrated you became.
You heard the bell above the door of the bakery ring. Someone had entered. You put the book aside and went to the front counter to greet the customer. It was him. You're regular. Chan. He admired the pastries placed in the window. He furrowed his brow, but smiled. Then he looked at you.
"No new pastry?" He tilted his head, a smug smile appearing.
You shook your head. "The newest book has left me stumped. And it's quite interesting actually."
"I see."
As your eyes met, you realized that the faceless author, the man whose words had enchanted you, was the man standing in front of you. It was Chan. The world, as you knew it, shattered. You, the baker who found inspiration in words, was now face to face with the wordsmith who found inspiration in you.
It was like he read your mind, knew what you had just realized. But you seemed unsure. Maybe you had it wrong. Then he reached his hand over the counter, grabbing yours. He then placed a piece of paper in your hand and pulled his hand away. You looked at him before opening the paper. It was a page, fresh out of the printer.
The words were different. They were a declaration of love, a confession that had been brewing in his heart for far too long. It was as sweet as your pastries, as deep as your passion.
Your eyes widened in disbelief, then slowly, a smile spread across your face. You reached out and took his hand. "I know. I've always known." You softly said.
Shock and surprise spread across his face. You knew all along. You just never said anything. Maybe it was the way he'd deeply admire your pastries because no other customer did that. Maybe it was the way he'd always ask you about the books. The way he'd ask about your next pastry,
Then from the bag he was holding, he reached in and pulled out every single one of his books he's ever written. They were all signed and were all for you.
"You said you didn't have all my books, right? So, here. A special delivery from the author to the muse." He smiles.
"M-Muse? Me? I'm the muse?"
"Didn't you already know? It's you. You're the reason why I keep writing."
You jumped over the counter, knocking the books out of his hands. You cupped the back of his head, and went in for a kiss. He doesn't realize it at first, but then does. He slowly melts into it, letting his eyes close and kisses you back.
And so, the phantom writer fell in love with the baker who brought his characters to life. Many of his next books were all for you. Based on you, based on your love story. Your love story was a secret, a whispered promise in the heart of a bustling city.
