The Bookshop Encounter
"Nadia runs a struggling Urdu bookshop in Manchester. When handsome literature professor Imran starts coming in regularly, she discovers his interest extends beyond the books."
The Bookshop Encounter
The bell chimed, and Nadia looked up from her accounts—numbers that made her want to cry.
"Assalamu alaikum." The man in the doorway was tall, bearded, wearing that slightly rumpled look of academics. "Do you have anything by Ismat Chughtai?"
Nadia's heart skipped. "You read Urdu literature?"
"I teach it. Manchester University." He smiled. "I'm Imran. I've walked past your shop a hundred times but never came in. Today seemed like the right day."
"The right day?"
"I needed a sign from the universe. Your window display changed to Faiz Ahmed Faiz." He gestured at the poetry collection she'd arranged that morning. "Mujh se pehli si mohabbat mere mehboob na maang. It felt personal."
Imran came back every week.
He'd browse for hours, discuss literature with passion, buy books he probably already owned. Nadia found herself curating displays for him, saving rare finds, counting the days until Thursday.
"Your shop is special," he said one evening, lingering past closing. "In a world of Amazon, you've created a sanctuary."
"A struggling sanctuary." She sighed. "The rent's going up. I don't know how much longer I can stay open."
"Then let me help."
"You already buy too many books."
"That's not what I mean." He stepped closer. "I've been coming here for three months, Nadia. Not just for the books."
Her breath caught. "Then why?"
"You. The way you light up discussing Ghalib. The way you press books into people's hands like you're giving them treasure. The way you—" He laughed softly. "I'm a literature professor. I should be better with words. But you make me forget everything except how much I want to know you."
Their first kiss was between the poetry shelves, surrounded by ghazals of longing finally fulfilled.
"This is very cliché," Nadia murmured.
"The best stories are." Imran pulled her closer. "Let me write ours."
They made love on the cushions in the reading corner after hours, slow and careful, like the first pages of a beloved book.
"Meri kitaab," he whispered, tracing her face. "My book. That's what you are. I want to read every page."
"That's either romantic or creepy."
"Definitely romantic." He kissed her. "Let me prove it."
He did—with his hands, his mouth, his scholar's attention to detail. When he finally entered her, they both sighed at the rightness.
"I love you," he said, moving within her. "I've loved you since that first conversation about Chughtai."
"Tumhe bhi," she gasped. "You too. From the first day."
"Marry me," Imran said afterward. "I know it's fast. I don't care."
"And the shop?"
"We'll figure it out. Together." He kissed her knuckles. "I'll guest lecture in the reading corner. We'll host literary events. Make it the cultural center it deserves to be."
"That's very practical for a proposal."
"I'm also madly in love with you. Is that romantic enough?"
She kissed him. "Ask me properly."
He got on one knee, right there between the shelves. "Kya aap mujhse shaadi karengi? Will you marry me, Nadia?"
"Haan. A thousand times haan."
The wedding was held in the bookshop, surrounded by the stories that had brought them together. The reception featured readings from their favorite poets.
The shop still struggles sometimes. But now it struggles together.
And Imran still comes in every Thursday.