“Between Pages”

Derry, Maine – October 1986

The Derry Public Library was quiet in that perfect way—like it was holding its breath.

You and Bill sat tucked into the far corner near the windows, a small stack of books between you. The Losers were supposed to meet later at the Quarry, but you’d come early. You liked it here. He liked it because you did.

The sunlight came in slanted through the old glass, warming the carpet in patches. You sat cross-legged, your shoes off, your jacket crumpled beside you. Bill was sitting sideways in the chair, one leg tucked up, a book in his lap that he hadn’t turned the page on in ten minutes.

He was looking at you.

You felt it before you saw it. That soft weight of being seen—not watched, not stared at. Seen.

You peeked over your book. “You’re not reading.”

He smiled a little, lips curving in that half-quiet, Bill way. “I-I already read this one.”

“Then why’d you bring it?”

He looked down, the smile still pulling at his cheeks. Then he closed the book gently and said, “B-Because I w-wanted to sit here with you. That’s all.”

Your heart did that thing again—folded in half, fluttered, unfolded like paper.

You set your book down too.

The room was still. Dust in the light. The soft sound of pages turning somewhere far away.

You leaned forward a little, resting your arms on your knees. “I like being here with you too.”

There wasn’t much to say after that.

So he reached over, lacing his fingers with yours between your chairs, thumb brushing the edge of your wrist.

And that’s how it stayed—for minutes, maybe hours. Two kids sitting in silence, not needing anything but each other, and the weight of a moment they’d never know how to explain.

The kind of moment you don’t understand while it’s happening. But later—years later—you remember how the light felt on your face, how the library smelled like old pages and quiet dust, and how love didn’t need to be loud to be real.

Sometimes, it just sits beside you.

And holds your hand.