[Romance] Falling in Love
Read the winning entry for our July 18, 2025 prompt, "Autistics Falling in Love"
Neurodivergent Narratives Presents: Our Take on Love on the Spectrum
A contest with heart.
The Dewey Decimal System
By Fiona Baker
She pushes the wooden trolley, heavy with books, out of the elevator. Guiding the disobedient wheels across the worn linoleum, she breathes in the intoxicating scent of paper and makes her way towards the 800s. Literature. She saves stacking these to the end of her shift so that she can linger and re-read her favourite passages. She counts the shelves: one, two, three, four, five. When she reaches six she slows and peers down the aisle to the single desk set next to a window. Her breath catches. He is there. Dark curls fall softly, obscuring his pale face. He is intently focused on the book that lays open, his pen poised over his notepad. She quickly looks away and continues down the rows. He has been there in the same seat for five nights. On the first night, she was startled. There was never usually anyone up here at the end of the day, and the stack was eerie with the fluorescent lights flickering and whirring and the ancient air-conditioning unit clanging and banging erratically. Then she found his presence comforting, and tonight, she realises, as she tucks in 811.54 Sylvia Path's ‘Ariel’, she had hoped he would be here. She retrieves 'To the Lighthouse' from her trolley. This is her favourite Virginia Wolfe. She would like to re-read it, but today her library card is full. She makes her way to the 820s and hides the novel behind the neatly shelved volumes for later. The next evening, she returns to retrieve her stash. She slips her hand into the space and pulls out, not her book, but another - 892.7342 'The Defence' by Vladimir Nabokov. She opens the cover, and a slip of paper flutters to the floor. Picking it up, she reads: "I suggest an exchange. I'll read Wolfe. You read Nabokov. Then we can discuss." She feels her cheeks burn. Could it be him? She had seen him this evening in his usual spot, but she was certain that he had not noticed her. She places the book onto her trolley and leaves quietly. She returns to the stack the next evening. She has read and re-read the Nabokov. Her palms are sweaty and slip against the polish of the trolley's handle. At shelf six, she stops, closes her eyes and smooths her skirt. She opens her eyes and lifts the Nabokov from the top of the pile. She sees that he is sitting at his desk, captivated by his book with a pile of notes making a fortress around him. She abandons her trolley and makes her way down the aisle. She stands next to his desk and looks down on a single dark curl resting on the back of his pale neck. She inhales the warm scent of spice. She thrusts the Nabokov towards him. He turns his deep brown eyes on her, and his long, slender hands hold out the Wolfe. "It's extraordinary", they say in unison.
Love with Extra Bacon
By Allyson Hogan
As Isaac held his drink in one hand, he fidgeted with the other, his thumb running back and forth across his fingertips. “Something wrong?” Meera asked.
His eyes met hers, then darted away. “It’s fine,” he said, forcing a weak smile.
Meera knew Isaac; this fidget was an anxious one. “What is it?” she pressed softly.
Isaac set his drink down, sighing. “It’s just—the piano,” he explained. “It’s sharp, and it’s all I can hear. Can’t concentrate.”
Meera looked across the restaurant to the man tinkling away at the piano. She turned back to Isaac, who gripped his glass with both hands. His thumbs ran up and down the cool condensation.
“Do you wanna go?” Meera asked.
Isaac grimaced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she assured him. “If the lights were flickering, I’d be tearing my hair out.”
His expression relaxed. “Thanks.” He rested his hand palm up on the table, and Meera took it, giving it a squeeze.
After an awkward apology to their server, they walked back toward Meera’s place. Such a relief, to be with someone who understood about sharp pianos. The tension eased from Isaac’s shoulders as Meera’s words washed over him.
“Here’s what’s great about Sunrise on the Reaping,” she was saying. “You go into the book thinking you know the main beats of this story, because we already got the footage of Haymitch’s Games in Catching Fire. But Suzanne Collins is like, ‘No, you don’t, this entire book is about propaganda! All you know is the Capitol’s version.’ And really—”
Meera cut off abruptly, making a face. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”
“Yeah, but it’s a good ramble,” Isaac replied. He put his arm around her. “Tell me everything.”
Her eyes lit up in the best way. “Oh god, best prequel ever!” she exclaimed, and her hands danced as she told him all about it.
Having given up on the restaurant, they made their old standbys for dinner: a pancake with bacon for Meera and a peanut butter sandwich for Isaac. “Want a piece of my bacon?” Meera asked as they carried their plates to the sofa.
“But it’s yours,” Isaac pointed out.
“That’s all right,” Meera told him. “I made extra in case you wanted one.”
“Okay,” Isaac agreed, brightening. He picked up a strip of bacon and took a bite. “Mmm—that’s perfect, thanks.”
It seemed silly now, making extra bacon to thank Isaac for liking her rambles; Meera needed to say something. But she found that no words would come out at all. Isaac picked up the remote, asking, “More Ted Lasso?”, and she just nodded.
Meera grabbed her phone. She wrote a text, sending it before she could get nervous and stop herself. As she heard the buzz of Isaac’s phone, she couldn’t look; she started cutting up her pancake.
But a minute later, her own phone buzzed. Meera snuck a glance at Isaac, catching his shy smile. She looked down at the screen to read his reply:
Love you too
My Person
By Emily Burgess