“I can rebind a 200-year-old Bible blindfolded but still forget how to say ‘I like you’ without sounding like a Wikipedia entry”

I run a tiny bookstore that never gets loud.

Most days I’m in the back room, breathing in old paper and hide glue, fixing spines that have waited a hundred years for someone to care again. I like that kind of patience. I’m trying to learn it for myself, too.

I’m autistic and ace and still figuring out how to say “I want you here” without sounding like I’m reading from a manual.

What I know for sure: I want shared silence that feels warm, not empty. I want someone who doesn’t mind if I rock on my heels when I’m happy or go quiet when the world gets too sharp. Someone who’ll let me trace the edge of their sleeve the way I trace gilt titles (slow, careful, like the book might vanish if I press too hard).

I can offer you tea that steeps exactly four minutes, a corner of the shop where the light is always soft, and every restored book I own if you’ll just sit with me while the rain taps the window.

That’s all.

If any of this sounds like home, say hello. I’ll be here, same sweater, waiting for the page to turn