Ocean Kisses

Notebook

He kept coming back, day after day. At first, it seemed like a coincidence—someone just browsing or indulging in a hobby. He’d buy different things every time: books on building techniques, guides to painting, even completely random odds and ends that didn’t seem connected. I found myself watching him more closely as the days went on, trying to piece together the puzzle of who he was.

Something about him intrigued me. He was quiet, polite, but always a little distant, like he didn’t want to linger too long in any conversation. But today was different. Today, when he walked in, he looked… irritated. His usual calm demeanor was gone, replaced by a slight furrow in his brow and a tenseness in his shoulders. He didn’t even glance at the shelves when he entered—he just came straight to the counter, almost as if he had something to say but didn’t quite know how to start.

I watched him for a moment, pretending to tidy up some books. My curiosity was getting the better of me. I had to know more about him. Something about the way he carried himself, about those piercing teal eyes, reminded me too much of the figure I’d seen underwater. And as much as I tried to convince myself it was just a coincidence, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was him.

"Rough day?" I finally asked, breaking the silence as casually as I could manage.

He blinked, as if he hadn’t noticed me standing there. For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he let out a low sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Something like that," he muttered. His voice was deep, just as I remembered it, and it sent a small shiver down my spine.

I decided to press a little further. "You’ve been coming here a lot lately," I said, leaning casually against the counter. "You looking for something specific? Or just expanding your collection of random knowledge?"

He gave me a sidelong glance, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Maybe both," he said, a small, almost reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You run a good shop. Lot of variety."

"Thanks," I said, feeling a bit of pride despite the awkwardness of the moment. "But I can’t help noticing—you’ve got an eye for some pretty specific topics. Building techniques, paintings, ocean monuments… feels like there’s a pattern."

He stiffened slightly at the mention of ocean monuments, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. But instead of brushing it off, he surprised me by meeting my gaze directly. "I like to study old things," he said simply. "Things people don’t understand anymore."

It was a vague answer, but it was more than I’d expected. I nodded, pretending to accept it at face value, but inside, my mind was racing.

"You know," I said after a pause, trying to keep my tone light, "you remind me of someone I saw once. Someone… underwater."

His expression didn’t change, but I could see the tension in his posture. He didn’t respond, didn’t even blink. For a moment, it felt like we were both holding our breath, waiting to see who would break the silence first.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and careful. "Underwater, huh? Must’ve been a hell of a dive."

I laughed nervously, unsure whether to push further. "Yeah. Something like that."

He didn’t say anything else, just gave me that same unreadable look before turning back to the shelves. I watched him for a while longer, feeling like I was standing on the edge of something—something big, something I didn’t fully understand yet. And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to dive in or back away.

He looked genuinely irritated, his teal eyes scanning the shelves with an almost restless energy. His finger tapped rhythmically against the edge of one of the shelves, betraying his impatience. I could tell he wasn’t finding what he was looking for, but he wasn’t quite ready to admit it. Not yet.

Finally, after a long pause, he turned to face me. "I know I already asked this," he began, his tone carefully measured, "but… do you think you might have anything else on ocean monuments?"

There it was again—that coaxing edge to his voice, the way he tried to sound casual but couldn’t quite mask the intensity underneath. I knew exactly where this was going, and I wasn’t in the mood to play along.

"Look," I said, folding my arms and leaning slightly against the counter, "I already gave you everything I have on ocean monuments. The pamphlets, the scraps, all of it. Everything else has been lost to time and water."

I could see the flicker of frustration in his expression, the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly. He was trying to stay calm, but I knew he wasn’t satisfied with my answer. And I knew why.

"Except for that notebook," I added pointedly, narrowing my eyes at him. "You know, the one you seem to know a lot about already."

His tapping stopped instantly, his hand freezing mid-motion. For a moment, he just stared at me, as if weighing his options. The air between us felt charged, like the silence before a storm.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he said finally, but his voice lacked the conviction to make it believable.

I raised an eyebrow, letting the skepticism show on my face. "Sure you don’t," I said, my tone dry. "But even if you did, that notebook isn’t for sale. It’s personal."

He took a step closer, leaning against the counter now, his piercing eyes locked onto mine. "I’m not trying to buy it," he said softly, his voice low and almost… persuasive. "I just think it might help me. That’s all."

"Help you with what?" I asked, my curiosity breaking through my irritation.

His gaze flickered for a moment, as if he was debating how much to say. "Let’s just say… I have a vested interest in understanding these monuments. More than most people do."

It was a vague answer, but it was enough to make me hesitate. There was something in his voice, something almost pleading, that made me feel like there was more to this than he was letting on. But I wasn’t ready to give in. Not yet.

"Like I said," I replied, keeping my tone firm, "the notebook isn’t for sale. And I’m not about to just hand it over to someone I barely know."

He straightened up, his expression carefully neutral again, but I could see the frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "Fair enough," he said after a moment, turning back toward the shelves.

But as he walked away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t the end of it. Not by a long shot. He seemed too determined, too driven by whatever mystery he was chasing. Something told me he wasn’t the kind of person to just let things go.

"The name’s XB, by the way," he called out from another part of the store, his deep voice cutting through the quiet hum of the room.

For a moment, I hesitated, caught off guard by his sudden shift in tone. Then, I straightened up behind the counter and replied simply, "Keralis."

He didn’t respond right away, but I caught a glimpse of him through the rows of shelves, glancing over his shoulder at me. There was something unreadable in his expression, a flicker of something that might’ve been curiosity or maybe amusement. Then, just like that, he turned back to the books and continued browsing.

I leaned back slightly, arms crossed, watching him from a distance. XB. The name didn’t ring any bells, but it lingered in my mind, much like everything else about him. Those piercing teal eyes, the quiet intensity, the way he seemed to carry some secret weight on his shoulders.

As I resumed tidying up the counter, I couldn’t help but wonder: who was he really? And why was he so fixated on ocean monuments?

And, more importantly, why did I feel like I’d just opened the first page of a story I wasn’t quite ready to read?