Chapter Fourteen: A Beautiful Interruption

This is Mira’s story — part fiction, part reflection, wholly honest.
(Each chapter will end with a note from her writing, signed as your trusted friend.)

Mira’s Story
Where the unexpected feels like belonging

Mira didn’t expect to see him.

She was wearing leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, and yesterday’s mascara. The grocery store wasn’t even her usual one, just a quick stop between school and home. She only needed oat milk and tortilla chips.

But there he was. Aisle four. Holding a jar of marinara like it might whisper something profound.

He looked up just as she rounded the corner.

Both of them paused.

Then smiled.

Not the polite kind. The you again kind.

Her pulse did a quiet skip, it always did when something familiar surprised her. She hadn’t expected to see him, but now that he was here, it felt like the day had been leading to it.

Rowan walked toward her, his cart half-empty, the same way he always moved, calm, like he had time. Like he made time, even for the small things.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said, eyes crinkling.

“I swear I’m usually more pulled together,” Mira said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Don’t,” he replied, shaking his head. “You’re perfect.”

It hung there for a second. Not flirtation. Just… truth.

He couldn’t help but be struck by the contrast. Paige never would have let herself be seen in leggings and slightly smudged eyeliner. Mira didn’t care. And somehow, that made her more beautiful.

They walked the aisles together, their conversation easy, as if this was something they’d done a hundred times. When they got to the tea section, Rowan reached for a box and paused.

“My mom used to buy this one,” he said. “After she got sick, I’d make it for her at night. She said it helped her sleep.”

He looked down at the box like it held more than herbs and flowers.

“I haven’t bought it since she passed. Until now, I guess.”

Mira felt it rise in her—the impulse to soften it, to say something wise, soothing, warm. To step into that space the way she always had: the comforter, the feeler, the one who holds what’s heavy. She opened her mouth—

Then blinked. Closed it again.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, half-laughing, half-cringing.

Rowan looked up. “What?”

She held up her hands like she’d just caught herself red-handed. “I was about to emotionally doula you.”

“I’m sorry… you were about to what me?” he said, brow raised, amused.

“Emotional doula,” she said, smirking now. “It’s a thing I do. I midwife other people’s feelings. Catch emotional babies that aren’t mine. Offer insight, hold space, say the right thing. Because I want to be met. And sometimes I forget I don’t have to earn that by carrying someone else’s pain like it’s mine.”

Rowan stared at her, somewhere between moved and completely delighted. “That is… disturbingly accurate. Do you just casually drop wisdom like that in the middle of a grocery store?”

“Constantly,” she said. “It’s exhausting, frankly.”

He grinned. “Well, I didn’t bring any emotional babies today, but I appreciate the offer.”

Mira laughed, the tension in her shoulders dissolving. “You’re welcome. I charge by the contraction.”

He laughed, the kind that crinkled his whole face. “You’re dangerous in a tea aisle, you know that?”

He started to say something, then stopped.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was going to make a joke but… it sounded better in my head.”

She tilted her head, curious. “You sure?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Yeah. I’ll workshop it.”

Something in his hesitation made her trust him more.

He tilted his head. “Wanna know my pattern?”

“Absolutely.”

“I pretend I’m fine, like, professionally. Crack a joke, offer a shoulder, fix what’s broken. Meanwhile, my own stuff is stacked in a corner somewhere like unopened mail.”

“Oof. Classic avoidant filing system,” Mira said. “Right next to the ‘we’ll deal with it later’ drawer.”

“Exactly. It’s very organized. Just don’t open anything.”

They both smiled, something warm and quiet settling between them.

Mira placed her hand lightly on the cart’s edge, close enough to say I’m here, not so close he’d feel her asking for more.

“Also, thank you for telling me… about your mom… the avoidant filing system,” she said. “I know those memories don’t always arrive when it’s convenient; they pop up like landmines.”

Rowan gave her a soft smile, his dimple just visible. “No. But you make them easier.”

Mira didn’t say anything at first, recognizing the weight of his voice. Just held his gaze for a beat, as if her eyes could say everything her words couldn’t.

“Anything else you need from this aisle, or should we brave the granola bars next?”

They didn’t plan to walk the aisles together; it just sort of happened. One unhurried step at a time, their carts bumping gently once, then never again, like they’d figured out a rhythm.

They weren’t shopping so much as meandering, talking about everything and nothing. Mira added chips to her basket; Rowan tossed in a bar of dark chocolate. At one point, he handed her a dragon fruit. “This might be the weirdest fruit in the produce aisle,” he said with a wink, “but also so delectable. Perfect for you.”

When they reached the refrigerated section, Mira reached for the oat milk, just as Rowan did. Their hands bumped, their fingertips brushing.

“Sorry,” she said, a quick laugh escaping.

He smiled. “Didn’t peg you for an oat milk girl. Little intimidating, honestly.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Says the man who talks to marinara jars.”

“Fair,” he said, grinning.

They lingered there for a moment, neither in a hurry to move on. The air between them felt easy, but charged, like something was unfolding without either of them needing to name it.

Eventually, they turned down one last aisle, tossing in a few more not-quite-essentials. He grabbed a jar of peanut butter.

“I used to eat that with a spoon during finals week,” she said. “It was either that or cry in the library. Sometimes both.”

“Peanut butter and emotional breakdowns,” Rowan said. “A classic pairing.”

She laughed, nudging his cart with hers. “Don’t knock it till you’ve ugly-cried over Chaucer and lived to tell the tale.”

“That explains the eyeliner,” he teased. “You’ve seen some things.”

“Oh, please,” she shot back, mock offended. “You think you’re not carrying trauma from that marinara jar?”

He grinned, holding up his hands. “Guilty. I talk to sauce, you cry over dead poets. We’re a mess.”

“But we’re a well-fed mess.”

She smiled at him, slower this time. “I like this,” she said softly, almost surprised by her own words.

“What?”

“This. You. Grocery carts and dumb jokes and… it just feels easy.”

He tilted his head. “Easy’s underrated.”

She nodded. “Yeah. It really is.”

They didn’t talk about leaving. They just… ended up at the register.

They paid, packed their bags, and moved through the motions like any two people on a casual grocery run. But something about it didn’t feel casual at all.

Something about his energy made her feel both calm and on edge…but not in a bad way. Like she could let her guard down, but her senses were wide awake, tuned to the proximity and presence of Rowan in a way that made her feel like her body had already decided he was important before her mind had time to catch up.

As they stepped into the soft light of the parking lot, Rowan looked over and said, “How about next time, we don’t leave it up to fate? Let me plan something for you, intentionally.”

Mira raised an eyebrow. “Wait, you’re telling me the fluorescent lighting and cereal aisle didn’t scream romance?”

He laughed, eyes crinkling. “I mean, the cereal aisle’s got its charm. But I was thinking something quieter. You carry so much… mom, teacher, writer. I’d like to give you a night where you don’t have to hold anything. Just breathe. Maybe even be held, for once.”

She didn’t answer right away. Something in her was still learning how to say yes without shrinking. She nodded, her voice quiet but steady, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

As she turned to walk toward her car, Rowan watched her go. The swing of her ponytail, the soft curve of her smile as she turned. The way her oversized sweatshirt hit just above the curve of her hips. Her leggings, well, he was only human. Her ass was perfectly round, annoyingly so, and he shook his head, amused at himself.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, dragging his eyes off her hips and back to the pavement. “Get it together.”

His fingers flexed around the cart handle like they needed something solid to hold on to. Watching her walk away, it hit him all at once: This wasn’t a slow burn anymore. This was heat.

Still, he was grinning all the way to his truck.

---

Letters from The Clever Confidante: The Magic in the Middle
How staying curious lets something real unfold

There’s something rare about the in-between.

The not-yet.
The rising curiosity before clarity.
The space between the first kiss and the second.
Before you know who you are to each other,
but after you’ve already felt the shift.

I used to hate this part.

I’d spiral. Overthink.
Decode text messages like riddles.
Try to play it cool when all I wanted was certainty.

Because the in-between is uncomfortable.
It pokes at our need for answers.
It stirs up all the old stories
and asks us to stay anyway.

We want to label it. Define it. Know it.
But in rushing toward the knowing,
we risk missing something irreplaceable.

We miss the breath before the deepening.
The rare flicker of magic that only exists
when someone who might one day feel familiar
still lives in the realm of mystery.

There’s something special about that.
Brief. Unstable. Alive.

Now?
Now I sit in it, the ache and the sweetness.
The unknowing.
The invitation to stay curious.

Because what if this moment is the last one before everything changes?
What if it’s the final quiet breath before something real takes root?

What if I miss it… by trying to name it too soon?

So I’m not reaching.
I’m not rushing.
I’m not trying to define it before it knows what it wants to become.

I’m just letting myself be in the in-between.

Always,
Your Trusted Friend ❤

Ever found yourself in the ache of the in-between not sure what it is — but knowing that it matters? I’d love to hear how you’ve learned to sit with the sweetness and discomfort of the not-yet.
(Leave it in the comments — or whisper it to the part of you that still wants answers. She’s listening.)

☁️ New here? You can start Mira’s Story from the beginning with Chapter Zero.

➡️✨ Continue Mira’s Story with Chapter Fifteen: The Way He Sees Her

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