When you run a bookstore, something strange happens after a few years: people stop seeing you as a retail owner and start treating you like a therapist with a cash register.
They come in to buy a book, sure, but before that, they tell you why. “I need something for my dad, he’s in the hospital again.” “I just got dumped, and I don’t want anything happy.” “I haven’t read in years, but I want to start.” Sometimes they don’t say anything at all. They just hover in front of the shelves like they’re waiting for the books to speak first.
My store is tucked between a hardware shop and a place that may or may not be a functioning locksmith. The sign is crooked. The door creaks. But once you’re inside, the noise of the world dulls just enough to hear yourself think. That’s all most people want, I guess, some space to think without being told what to think.
We keep things messy on purpose. Books lean on each other like old friends. Some have notes in the margins, others have names scrawled on the inside covers. I once found a breakup letter in a copy of Anna Karenina. I left it there. Seemed fitting.
My favorite regular is a kid named Miles. He’s eleven, obsessed with ancient Egypt, and convinced we’re hiding a secret room behind the nonfiction section. I told him he’s wrong. I’m also not going to be the one who tells him to stop looking.
Bookstores aren’t supposed to survive here, and the rent’s brutal. Margins are razor-thin. Everyone’s on their phones. And yet people still come. They still run their fingers along spines, still ask for “something that feels like fall,” still sit on the floor and read until their coffee goes cold.
Some nights, after I’ve closed up, I sit behind the counter and reread something old and comforting. I don’t do it to stay informed or relevant. I do it to remind myself why this space matters not just for me but for the people who walk in with heavy hearts and leave a little lighter.
We’re not selling books. We’re holding space. And in this city, that might be the rarest thing of all.
