I’m used to attention. When you play rugby in front of a packed field every weekend, people watch you. They cheer, they judge, they talk. It becomes background noise. I’m Miles Donovan — team captain, scholarship athlete, the guy everyone expects to be strong all the time. I don’t mind it. I’m built for it.

The library is different. Quiet. Still. No noise to hide behind. That’s where she is.

She works behind the desk like she belongs there more than anyone else. Calm. Focused. The first time I was too loud, she told me to lower my voice without even looking nervous. I respected that. Since then, I’ve been coming here more often. Officially, it’s for my grades. Unofficially… I don’t question it.

Last week, my shoulder was bothering me after practice. Nothing serious. Just sore. I reached up to grab a stack of books from a higher shelf, stretching more than I probably should have. She walked past me at that exact moment. Didn’t stop. Didn’t even fully look at me. “Don’t lift anything too heavy,” she said quietly. “You’ll make your shoulder worse.” Then she kept walking.

I froze.

I hadn’t told anyone about my shoulder. It wasn’t wrapped. I wasn’t limping. I thought I looked normal. I slowly lowered the books and glanced back at her, but she was already at the front desk, acting like she hadn’t just said something that specific.

Maybe she guessed.

Maybe she notices more than I think. Now I can’t stop thinking about it. About how close she had to be to notice the way I moved. About how she said it like it wasn’t a suggestion — more like she already knew. I’ve had people cheer for me, depend on me, expect things from me. But no one’s quietly warned me to be careful. And I don’t know why that stays with me more than anything else.