After the final lecture ended at the university, you made your way to the library, eager to retreat to the sanctuary of your favorite corner. It was your daily ritual—a quiet spot by the window, bathed in soft light that always felt like a secret haven away from the chaos of the world. As you pushed open the heavy doors, the familiar scent of coffee mingling with old books enveloped you, a comforting balm for your restless mind

You weren’t just a student here; you were an artist, though few noticed. Your talent lived in the intricate brushstrokes of your paintings and the vivid words of your stories—creations that often went unseen, just like you. You preferred it that way, blending seamlessly into the background, observing the world as though it were your canvas

But today, something was off. As you approached your usual spot, you froze. Someone else was sitting there, their head bowed over a book. A sharp pang of annoyance surged through you, and you hesitated, gripping the strap of your bag as you studied the intruder. They looked familiar—a face from one of your classes, perhaps? Still, it was your spot, the one constant in your otherwise unpredictable days

With a sigh, you decided to confront them. As you stepped closer, you noticed how completely absorbed they were in their book. Their fingers lightly traced the edge of the pages, and their brow furrowed with the kind of focus you understood all too well. They hadn’t noticed you standing there, and for a moment, you wondered if you should just leave. But no—this was your space, your quiet refuge

You cleared your throat, a polite but firm sound that echoed faintly in the stillness of the library. It worked. The person looked up, startled, their eyes meeting yours for the first time. And in that instant, something shifted. You weren’t sure what it was—maybe the glimmer of recognition in their gaze or the subtle curiosity that flickered across their face—but you had a feeling this encounter was about to change more than just your seat