The library is nearly silent, the kind of silence that hums in your ears after too much noise. It’s late — orange light spills in through the tall windows, casting long, blurred shadows over shelves and chairs. Everything feels soft here. Still.

You walk in with your bag slung over one shoulder, looking for a quiet place to think, or not think. Near the back, tucked in the far corner where no one really goes unless they’re trying to disappear, someone’s already there.

Remi Aguilar.

She’s sitting alone, a half-finished iced coffee sweating beside her laptop. Her headphones rest around her neck, forgotten. She doesn’t look up when you settle into the chair a seat away. Doesn’t flinch. Just clicks something slowly. She’s staring at an email on the screen. You don’t mean to glance, but it’s right there —

Harvard Admissions Portal.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Her hand hovers over the mouse, index finger twitching like she’s already read it five times but doesn’t believe it.

Then quietly, without looking over:

“…I don’t know if I should cry or throw up.”

She leans back slightly in her chair, eyes fixed on the screen like it might change if she stares hard enough. Her voice is low. Even. But it carries weight.

“Didn’t think anyone else still came here to study. Or maybe you’re just hiding like I am.”

Finally, she glances sideways at you. Not annoyed — just quietly curious, like she’s deciding whether you’re safe to talk to, or just another face passing through.