Page 30 of Safe With You

Rachel stood slowly, smoothing her palms against the front of her jeans before making the short walk to the microphone. She adjusted it once, then twice, letting out a nervous laugh that drew a few understanding smiles from the crowd.

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” she admitted.

“You’ve got this,” someone called from the back.

A chorus of agreement followed.

Rachel laughed again, this time sounding a little less afraid.

I lowered my camera.

There was something sacred about those first few seconds. They belonged to her, not to a photograph.

She took a breath, found her place on the page, and began to read.

By the second stanza, the shaking in her voice had settled. By the third, she stopped looking at her notebook after every line. She looked at the audience instead.

That’s when I lifted my camera again.

Click.

Somewhere along the way, she’d stopped worrying about getting it perfect and forgotten I was there.

As Rachel finished, applause filled the bookstore once more. She smiled—a real smile this time—and walked back to her seat with her shoulders just a little higher than before.

Across the room, Luna clapped just as enthusiastically as everyone else, pride written all over her face. She looked less like the owner of the bookstore and more like someone watching a friend accomplish something they’d been too afraid to try.

I found myself wondering how many stories had started exactly like that.

One nervous person.

One open microphone.

One woman quietly believing in them until they believed in themselves.

The evening settled into an easy rhythm after that. One performer gave way to the next, each bringing something different to the room. A retired English teacher shared a poem he’d written for his wife after forty-three years of marriage. A high school senior read the opening chapter of the fantasy novel she’d been working on since sophomore year. A college student performed a spoken word piece about learning to forgive his father, leaving half the room wiping at their eyes before the applause finally broke the silence.

I moved constantly, weaving between bookshelves and tables, searching for the moments that happened between performances instead of only the ones under the spotlight.

A grandmother reached for her granddaughter’s hand after a particularly emotional poem.

Two strangers compared book recommendations while waiting for the next reader.

Maya quietly replaced an empty coffee mug before its owner even realized it had disappeared.

Through it all, Luna never stopped moving. Somehow, she managed to make every person who spoke to her feel like they were the only thing she had to do.

I caught myself smiling more than once, and I was fairly certain she had no idea anyone was paying that close attention.

By the time the final reader stepped away from the microphone, the bookstore had taken on that comfortable kind of exhaustion that only followed a good evening. Conversations lingered long after the program ended. People hugged goodbye, exchanged phone numbers, promised to come back, and wandered toward the register with books tucked beneath their arms.

The event had ended.

The community hadn’t.

I lowered my camera and glanced through a few of the photographs I’d taken throughout the night.

Rachel’s nervous smile before she found her courage.