💌 Fifteen Minutes at a Time, a Romantic Short Story
The other night I watched Pride and Prejudice again, and it reminded me why I’ve always loved romance stories. Not the perfect, fairy tale ones, but the quiet kind, where feelings show up in small gestures we almost miss.
So I decided to write one.
“Fifteen Minutes at a Time” is about the kind of love we overlook — the quiet, ordinary kind that asks nothing grand, only that we keep showing up. It’s a story about learning to see the extraordinary in the familiar.
You can read the full story now on my blog (just below) and on Wattpad (click here to read on app).
And yes, I’m still working on Parenting Unpacked. But every now and then, I like to take a little detour. This one felt worth sharing.
I’d love to know what you think.
🥐 Fifteen Minutes at a Time
“I figured it out—what’s wrong with me,” Emily said, her breath fogging the damp air.
Daniel turned just enough to catch her in the corner of his eye, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Only one thing? That’s almost disappointing. Go on.”
They stood pressed under Waterloo Bridge, the concrete sweating around them. The rain wasn’t romantic—it smelled faintly of diesel and wet stone. A bus passed overhead, heavy enough to shake the air. Emily tugged at her sleeve, denim soaked through, fingertips numb. Beside her, a cup of iced coffee sweated on the ledge next to a paper bag she swore held the best croissant in London—worth every soaked step of the fifteen-minute walk from her flat.
It had been her ritual long before he started showing up. She never invited him, but for months now Daniel—her best friend’s older brother, with a knack for appearing just when she wanted to disappear—had been there like clockwork. She told herself it was coincidence. She didn’t quite believe it.
“You’re not going to guess?” she asked.
“Wouldn’t dare.” He leaned back against the wall, hair plastered to his temple. “But I’d listen.”
The rain roared against the river, and for a second she could hear her own pulse fighting the sound.
She leaned into the cold stone. “It’s love,” she admitted finally.
“That’s what’s wrong with me.” She hesitated. “I used to think I was built for it—until I realized I was always the one holding on after everyone else let go.”
You start to confuse being steady with being unwanted.
She exhaled, watching her breath vanish. “I don’t think it’s for me.”
Daniel’s smirk faded. “That’s a bold claim for twenty-one.”
“I mean it. Everyone else just seems to… fall. And me? I walk fifteen minutes every day for coffee and a croissant that’s mostly butter, and that feels like the closest thing I’ve got to a relationship.”
He laughed, the sound rougher than usual. “So I’m just your wingman in a pastry romance.”
Her lips twitched, but the smile slipped fast. “I don’t think I believe in the kind of love people write songs about. Maybe it’s a myth.”
For a moment—only rain and the low hum of traffic. Then Daniel shifted closer, warmth brushing her arm.
“Maybe the problem isn’t you,” he said quietly. “Maybe you just don’t recognize it when it’s standing right in front of you.”
Emily’s throat burned. “You make it sound so simple. Like I can just switch something on.”
“I’m not saying it’s simple,” he said. “Maybe you’re looking for the wrong shape.”
“Love isn’t supposed to have shapes,” she murmured. “It’s supposed to be fireworks. Lightning strikes.”
He gave a breathy laugh. “That’s what movies say. Not life. In some places, love isn’t about sparks. It’s about family, stability. In India, it sometimes grows after the vows. In Japan, it’s shared values and respect. Here, we romanticize fireworks. But sparks aren’t the only way to burn.”
Her stomach flipped. “So which one’s real love?”
“All of them,” he said. “Depends what you need.”
She studied him. A raindrop hung from his lash; it fell and left a streak down his cheek.
The rain eased to a steady hiss. “So you’re saying I’ve been waiting for the wrong thing?”
“Maybe you’ve been waiting for fireworks when you’ve already had something better.”
Her pulse skipped. “Better?”
He tilted closer. “Fireworks fade,” he murmured, eyes holding hers. “But showing up—every day, rain or shine, croissant or no croissant—that lasts.”
He winced, half-smiling. “God, that sounded smoother in my head.”
She laughed once, quietly, and the sound cracked open the air between them.
Heat rose in her neck. She thought about the months of walks, how he always matched her stride. He looked like he meant every word.
“You make it sound like you’ve got it all figured out,” she said.
His hand brushed the ledge near hers. “Not everything,” he said, voice catching. “But maybe I know more than you think.”
“Theory or philosophy?” she teased, the words thinner than she meant.
“Maybe both.” His gaze softened. “Maybe that’s what love looks like. Not fireworks. Just choosing someone’s company, over and over again.”
Her laugh came out shaky. “So my epic love story is just you and me, coffee in the rain?”
He leaned in, sleeve warm against hers. His lips parted, then closed again.
Her body betrayed her—a step back before she realized. A car horn blared above, shaking loose bits of grit from the bridge. “You really missed your calling as a philosopher.”
His smile dimmed. “Guess that’s what happens when you spend too much time with someone who questions everything.”
She gripped the stone to keep from reaching for him. If I don’t move now, I’ll lose this.
“Maybe I was right,” she said. “Maybe love just isn’t for me.”
Silence. His jaw tightened. She could already see tomorrow: coffee, croissant, pretending this never happened.
The rain softened again, washing the city in dull gold from the traffic lights.
“You’re wrong, you know.”
She looked at him—no smirk, just steady eyes.
“Love’s not a myth,” he said. “It’s showing up when it’s inconvenient. Knowing your order without asking. Standing under a freezing bridge because fifteen minutes with you feels like the best part of the day.”
Emily’s throat ached. “Don’t say things like that,” she blurted, sharper than she meant. “You’ll make it sound like a promise.”
Daniel flinched slightly, then steadied. “Maybe it is.”
Water trickled from the ledge above. She looked down, watching it darken the toes of her boots. His sleeve brushed hers, and this time she didn’t move away.
“If you still think love’s not for you,” he murmured, “maybe you’re just not seeing what’s right in front of you.”
The air hummed—one heartbeat, maybe two. Her fingers brushed his; his thumb grazed the back of her hand.
“You make it sound easy,” she whispered.
His smile was small, unsteady. “Not easy. Just worth it.”
Warmth spread through her chest, chasing off the chill. She’d thought love was fireworks. But here it was: quiet, imperfect, waiting for her to finally see it.
He reached for the bag on the ledge. “Your croissant’s probably soggy,” he said lightly, thumb brushing hers before letting go. “Guess that means I’ll have to meet you here again tomorrow.”
Emily smiled—the kind she hadn’t worn in a long time. “Good.”
And for once, she didn’t overthink it. She just let herself want something that wanted her back.
A quiet thought flickered anyway—what if this, too, doesn’t last? She let it pass, like the last drop of rain sliding off her sleeve.
They stepped out from under the bridge, footsteps falling into rhythm.
And for the first time, she knew love didn’t have to be fireworks.
Sometimes it was a croissant, a coffee, and someone who kept showing up—fifteen minutes at a time.
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