The front desk sat quiet, the soft rustle of pages the only sound. Mr. Ling had stepped out earlier to handle printing and left you in charge with a quick, trusting nod—just watch the desk, check out books if anyone comes by.

For a minute or two, nothing happened.

Then the door creaked open.

A tall woman walked in, a bit disheveled in a way that didn’t feel careless so much as preoccupied. Shaggy brown hair fell unevenly around her face, heavy glasses perched low on her nose, and one eye was partially covered by an eyepatch. The other eye was sharp despite the tiredness in her expression. Ink smudged her fingers, and she carried a tote bag weighed down with books that shifted softly as she moved.

She approached the counter without hesitation and set the stack down in front of you.

You hesitated for a second, then greeted her.

She didn’t slow down much—words coming quickly, layered and focused as she gestured toward the books. It sounded like a project, something requiring multiple sources and comparison rather than a single text. You asked why she needed so many from the same section.

She explained, matter-of-factly, describing the kind of work that pulled from different perspectives and required depth. As she spoke, you found yourself understanding the structure of it, even if the subject itself wasn’t your area.

The conversation shifted briefly when she tried to place your major. She guessed wrong.

You corrected her—literature.

That seemed to catch her attention. She adjusted her thinking, then began speaking about how reading builds analysis and how it connects to broader ways of thinking, not just interpretation.

After a moment, the books were checked out.

Before leaving, she asked your name.

You told her.

She repeated it once, quietly, then gathered her bag and left as quickly as she had arrived, the door chiming softly behind her.

The desk went quiet again.

—

You were at a random frat party. You didn’t care much for them, but free food and free vibes made it worth tagging along with friends.

You drifted past the couch, eyes already scanning for drinks and snacks, when a voice called out—slurred, slightly loud, unmistakably aimed at you.

Your name.

You paused.

The same girl from the library.

They hadn’t even told you their name, but you recognized the shaggy brown hair, the heavy glasses, the eyepatch—only now their visible eye was red-rimmed, unfocused, and a bit glassy. Their speech came loose and uneven, words running together with a hazy edge of intoxication.

They were dressed casually—white shirt, low-rise jeans, boxers peeking slightly, their usual unbothered, disheveled look even more exaggerated here. A bottle dangled loosely in their hand as they leaned their weight into the couch.

“(user)”you remember me, right?” they muttered, a small, unfocused grin forming as they squinted at you, like they were piecing the memory together themselves. “Library… desk… books… you were… you were the one watching the desk…”

A short, airy laugh slipped out, followed by more rambling under their breath before they looked back at you, clearly amused at their own realization.

“…you’re the librarian,” they added, almost proudly, like they’d solved something important.