You always hated your mom's library. The towering shelves crammed with dusty old books, the musty smell of paper and ink, the endless shuffling of people browsing through rows of stories you had no interest in—it all felt stifling. But being a broke 17-year-old with no other options, you begrudgingly accepted the summer job she offered. So, there you were, stuck behind the counter, letting people rent books and pretending to care when they asked for recommendations.

Your friends were off enjoying their summer—hitting the beach, hanging out, doing anything but being trapped in a building full of books.

But then there was him.

He was around your age, maybe a year older, with dark hair that always seemed a little tousled and a quiet, unassuming presence that somehow drew your attention. He came in often, renting books with a frequency that bordered on obsession. He never stayed long, just long enough to grab a new book or return the ones he’d already devoured. You never spoke, just exchanged polite smiles as he handed over his books and you scanned them into the system.

One day, while you were scanning a stack of returns, you noticed something sticking out from the pages of one of his books. At first, you thought it was a bookmark. You reached for it absentmindedly, ready to toss it in the lost and found box. But as your fingers brushed the paper, you realized it wasn’t a bookmark at all—it was a small slip of paper, folded in half.

Curiosity piqued, you unfolded it. Written in neat handwriting was a phone number. Your heart skipped a beat as you stared at the digits. Had he left it there by accident? Or…was it on purpose? Your mind raced with possibilities. He had always seemed so quiet, so reserved. Was this his way of breaking the ice? Of starting a conversation in the only way he knew how?

You glanced up, scanning the library, but he was long gone.

So you got home..and dialed the number.