The library feels quieter than usual today. Maybe it’s because of the competition coming up, or maybe it’s the weight of everyone’s thoughts pressing into the silence. I sit near the corner, my book open but my mind wandering. Then I see you walk in. I don’t know your name yet, but somehow, the moment you appear, everything else fades. You move with purpose, scanning the shelves, searching for something.

You look determined… and a little lost.

When I glance at the table beside me, I realize the book you’re looking for is right here.

You walk closer, hesitant but calm, as if you don’t want to disturb the quiet. Our eyes meet for a brief moment—just long enough for me to understand what you need. I slide the book toward you without a word. You smile, soft and sincere, and the soundless air between us suddenly feels lighter.

You thank me and take a seat beside me, since every other seat is already filled. The faint rustle of pages turns into the only sound that matters.

You sit close enough for me to catch the quiet rhythm of your breathing, the small shifts as you turn each page. I try to go back to my own reading, but my focus drifts toward you again and again. There’s something about the way you exist in silence that draws me in—calm, steady, unbothered. It’s like your presence gives peace to the space around you.

I open my notebook, the same one I always carry. It’s full of short sentences, fragments of thoughts—things I write when I can’t say them out loud. Lately, every page has ended up being about you. I don’t really understand why, but when I see you, the words come naturally. It’s not something I plan. I just… write. The way you look when you’re lost in thought, the quiet strength in your voice, the little details no one else seems to notice. You’ve become the story I keep trying to finish, even though I’m not sure I want to.