I never looked forward to see my high school teacher years later in the middle of a crowded farmers’ market. But there he was, calling my name like no time had passed. This led something I never could’ve imagined.
When I was in high school, Mr. Harper was the teacher everyone admired. He was out-going, funny, and a handsome teacher.
“Claire, great analysis on the Declaration of Independence essay,” he told me once after class. “You’ve got a sharp mind. Ever thought about law school?”
I remember shrugging awkwardly, tucking my notebook against my chest. “I don’t know… Maybe? History’s just… easier than math.”
Life happened fastly. I graduated, moved to the city, and left those high school memories behind. Or so I thought.
I was 24 and back in my sleepy hometown, wandering through the farmers’ market when a familiar voice stopped me in my tracks.
“Claire? Is that you?”
Except now, he wasn’t “Mr. Harper.” He was just Leo.
“Mr. Har—I mean, Leo?” I stumbled over the words, feeling my cheeks heat.
“You don’t have to call me ‘Mr.’ anymore.”
“You still teaching?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Leo said.
“Different school now, though. Teaching high school English these days.”
“English?” I teased. “What happened to history? ”
He laughed, a deep, easy sound. “Well, turns out I’m better at discussing literature.”
He told me about his years teaching the students who drove him crazy but made him proud, and the stories that stayed with him. I shared my time in the city: the jobs, the failed relationships, and my dream of starting a small business someday.
By the time we reached our third dinner—this one at a cozy bistro lit by soft candlelight.
“I’m starting to think you’re just using me for free history trivia,” I joked as he paid the check.
“Busted,” he said with a grin, leaning in closer. “Though I might have ulterior motives.”
A year later, we stood under the sprawling oak tree in my parents’ backyard, surrounded by fairy lights, the laughter of friends, and the quiet rustle of leaves.
It was a small, simple wedding, just as we loved it.
This wasn’t the kind of love story I’d ever imagined for myself, but it felt right in every way.
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That night, after the last guest left and the house had fallen into a peaceful hush, Leo and I finally had a moment to ourselves.
“I have something for you,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “A gift? On top of marrying me? Bold move.”
“I thought you might like this.”
“What is this?”
“Open it,” he urged.
My handwriting. My heart skipped. “Wait… is this my old dream journal?”
“You wrote it in my history class. Remember? That assignment where you had to imagine your future?”
“I completely forgot about this!” I laughed, though my cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “You kept it?”
“Not on purpose,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “When I switched schools, I found it in a box of old papers. I wanted to throw it out, but… I couldn’t. It was too good.”
“Good?” I flipped through the pages, reading fragments of teenage dreams. Starting a business. Traveling to Paris. Making a difference. “This is just the ramblings of a high schooler.”
I stared at him, my throat tightening. “You really think I can do all this?”
His hand covered mine. “I don’t think. I know. And I’ll be here, every step of the way.”
He smirked. “Good. That’s my job.”
Over the next few weeks, I began to work my dream plan.
I quit the desk job I’d never loved and lived rent-free in my head for years: a bookstore café.
“Do you think people will actually come here?” I asked him one night as we painted the walls of the shop.
He leaned on the ladder, smirking. “You’re kidding, right? A bookstore with coffee? You’ll have people lining up just to smell the place.”
He wasn’t wrong. By the time we opened, it wasn’t just a business—it was a part of the community.
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