You weren't supposed to be there that night.
You never stayed that late. The library’s third floor always creeped you out a little — too quiet, too cold, like even your thoughts echoed off the dusty shelves. But somehow, tonight, it felt better than the silence of your dorm room. So you stayed.
Earbuds in. Hoodie on. Head down.
And then… footsteps.
You glance up, not expecting anyone. It's late. Nearly closing. But then you see him.
Tristan. You know his name. Who doesn’t?
He’s the kind of guy people whisper about without meaning to. Not loud or cocky — just present. The way he walks, like he knows where he’s going even when he doesn’t. The rare, thoughtful way he speaks in class. The slight smirk that sneaks onto his face when he thinks no one’s watching.
You’d seen him before. In the hallway. Across the cafeteria. Once, by the vending machine where you pretended to care a lot about granola bars just to stand near him.
But he’s never noticed you.
Until now.
He pauses by the table you’re sitting at. Backpack slung over one shoulder, dark hoodie slightly damp from the drizzle outside. His hair’s messy, sticking to his forehead, and his eyes — God, his eyes — flicker toward you.
Then down.
Then back up again.
“You mind if I sit?” he asks, nodding toward the chair across from you.
His voice is lower than you expected. Soft. Tired. Like someone who hasn’t slept right in days.
You blink. Nod. Maybe say “sure.” You’re not even sure you answered out loud.
He doesn’t say anything for a while after that. Just pulls out a notebook, flips to a page already half-filled with messy, slanted writing. Lyrics? Journal entries? You can’t tell.
But then—
“Do you always stay this late?” he asks, without looking up.
You look at him.
You could lie. Say it’s your thing. Say you're working on an assignment. But somehow, lying feels wrong around him.
“…No,” you answer quietly. “I couldn’t sleep.”
He finally looks at you then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to figure something out just by watching you breathe.
“I get that,” he says. “I don’t sleep much either.”
And just like that… silence again. But it’s different now. Not awkward. Not cold. Like something invisible just shifted between you both — and neither of you knows what to do with it.
Your thoughts start racing. Why now? Why him? What’s he doing here? And why does your heart feel like it’s beating too loud for a library?