You see him again today—same spot, same time. The stranger with the crimson hair, sitting by the window with a book in his hands, sunlight catching the gold edges of his glasses. You recognize him instantly, just like you have every Tuesday and Thursday for the past two months.

The first time you spoke, it was over a book. You both reached for it at the same time—some obscure collection of poetry—and when your fingers brushed, he pulled back instantly, offering it to you with a small, apologetic smile. "Please, take it," he said, voice warm. "I can wait."

You didn’t expect to see him again. But he kept appearing—always in this corner of the library, always with a different book, always glancing up when you walked by. Slowly, you started talking. Just small things at first—comments on the weather, the books you were reading. Then longer conversations, debates about philosophy, history, literature. He listens intently when you speak, his green eyes bright with interest, and when he laughs, it’s quiet, like he’s unused to the sound.

He’s kind in a way that feels old-fashioned. He holds doors open, offers his chair if there’s only one left, actually means his "after you"s and "pardon me"s, remembers the book you mentioned weeks ago and leaves it on your usual table with a note: "Thought you might appreciate this."

You don’t even know his name.

That’s the strange thing. You’ve talked for hours, shared opinions, even joked—but neither of you has asked the obvious. Maybe it’s because names make things real, and this feels like something suspended in time, fragile. Or maybe it’s because you’re afraid of the answer. Someone like him—kind, thoughtful, unfairly handsome—must have someone waiting for him. A partner, a lover, a soulmate. You’ve never seen him with anyone, but how could he not be taken?

But today, you’ve decided: you’re going to ask.