Chapter Text
Author's POV
The beams of sunlight filtered gently through the tall, arched windows of the university’s library, casting a warm, golden haze across the polished wooden floors. Dust particles danced midair like tiny stars suspended in still time, glimmering each time a ray caught them. They shimmered quietly, like static in the air—sunlight spilling secrets into the silence.
Outside the glass panes, the lush greenery swayed with a crisps breeze — leaves fluttering like whispers, and delicate white flowers nodding softly under the caress of the wind. The courtyard beyond was serene and empty, its cobbled paths bathed in the harsh brilliance of the midday sun. Most students had retreated into dormitories, lecture halls, and quiet cafés, their minds buried beneath textbooks and unfinished essays. The courtyard, once lively, now shimmered under a scorching embrace — sunlight pooling like molten gold across every stone.
Inside the library, the atmosphere felt entirely different—cooler, still, and almost sacred. The scent of old paper and soft wood polish lingered in the air, grounding the quiet in something familiar and soothing. Somewhere far off, a page turned with a faint whisper.
Only a few students dotted the vast space, each quietly absorbed in their own world. Some sat alone, bent over notes and highlighted pages. Others meandered between shelves, fingertips gliding along spines until they found what they were looking for. A rare few huddled in groups of four or five, well-known friends sharing hushed whispers and light, stifled laughter beneath the hanging glow of reading lamps.
Her hand, pale and soft, reached up toward the top shelf with a quiet grace, fingers extending for the hardcover just slightly out of reach. She rose on her toes, just enough for her calves to tense, her balance steady and poised. Almost there... Her lips parted slightly with a breath—soundless, instinctive. Her brown eyes, gentle and unwavering, stayed locked on the spine of the book. The strands of her light brown ponytail shifted along her back, swaying with her movement. A few loose ends tickled the bare skin of her arm, making her blink—just once—at the faint, teasing sensation.
She wore a simple white T-shirt — neither tight nor baggy — its soft cotton clinging in a way that felt both modest and naturally graceful, outlining her form without drawing attention to it. Her ankle-length skirt, a delicate powder pink, shifted lightly with each movement, the airy fabric fluttering just enough to brush the tops of her white crew socks. The hem floated like petals in a soft breeze, grazing her socks with a near-silent sweep. That gentle friction — fabric whispering against fabric — sent the faintest tingle up her skin, even through the layers.
Strange how something so small could still be felt.
She curled her toes once inside her black polished shoes, almost shyly, as if the sensation had caught her off guard.
Her heels lowered gently back to the ground with the faintest thud, the weight of the book now resting securely in one hand. Her other hand brushed across the cover with care, her gaze lowering to read the title with slow patience. Her lashes cast soft shadows along her cheeks, fluttering as she blinked. Found it... The quiet satisfaction was brief, almost invisible on her face, but it pulsed gently in her chest like a quiet nod to herself.
And then she felt it—again. That gaze. That quiet presence she’d noticed over the past three weeks—never too close, never too far—it was just there. Not cold. Not warm. Just watching.
Her breath stalled for a moment.
Her eyes shifted slowly to the left, heart thudding once — not out of fear, but awareness.
Just past the corner of her shelf, across the narrow walking space between bookcases, and through the open air that divided the row—there.
Dark brown eyes.
The same ones she had seen three weeks ago.
He was there again, standing quietly in front of his own shelf, as if browsing. He wasn’t reaching nor was he searching for anything; he was just standing still. And though they were separated by a gap wide enough to walk through, the moment their eyes met, it felt impossibly close.
Who are you? she wondered, not in fear, but in soft curiosity.
She gasped softly as she turned away, her body angling just enough to hide her face from his line of sight. The book rested carefully on her forearm, its weight delicate yet grounding, while her other hand lingered over the cover — fingertips tracing the embossed letters as though the texture alone could tether her to the present. Her eyes dropped to the floor, then to the spine of the book, but her mind drifted elsewhere, unfocused, and distant.
Her pulse fluttered in her ears — a muted rhythm that seemed louder in the silence of the library. A faint warmth began to climb beneath her skin, threading up from her chest to her neck, blooming like soft heat beneath her cheeks. The air around her suddenly felt sharper, cooler — and she wasn’t sure if it was from the library’s air conditioning or from that strange awareness that prickled along her spine.
Goosebumps ghosted over her arms, her fingertips tingling slightly as she exhaled.
What is this feeling... awareness or the cold?
Her hand curled unconsciously over the book’s edge, her fingers gripping it just a little tighter — as if steadiness could be borrowed from something so ordinary. The gesture was small, instinctive, but it carried a pulse of shyness that rushed through her veins, blooming warmth into her face. Her heart beat faster — too fast, she thought — fluttering inside her chest like a startled bird desperate to calm down but unable to.
She could still feel him. That quiet presence behind her — invisible but unmistakably there. Watching, perhaps. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just her mind spinning again, too aware for its own good. Still, the thought lingered and refused to let go.
Why does he keep looking at me?
It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed him. She had seen him before — often, actually — in the same lecture hall she attended. He was always either by the windows or the aisle. He was always quiet, rarely speaking unless spoken to, and when he did, his tone was calm, deliberate. She didn’t even know his name, yet there was something strangely familiar about his stillness. It was never unnerving — just… present.
And it wasn’t as if she ever stared at him. She wasn’t that kind of girl. She never entertained crushes the way her friends did, giggling over glances or interpreting smiles into hidden meanings. To her, boys were simply boys — people to be respected, spoken to kindly, but never lingered upon.
Sure, there were times when her heart fluttered faintly at small gestures — a polite “Miss,” a door held open, a courteous smile. But it never went beyond that. Priorities, she reminded herself. She was twenty-two, and her life — her goals, her peace — came first. Romance was never something she chased; it would come when it was time, if it ever did.
And yet… she remembered him. The first and only time they’d actually spoken was exactly three weeks ago.
The university had gathered students from different departments in the courtyard, the early ones lingering under the afternoon sun while waiting for the aptitude test orientation to begin. She remembered the chatter — the lazy breeze brushing through the trees, the sound of laughter bouncing off stone walls, the way the group of seven students began with light conversation just to pass time.
It had been easy talk at first — “What do you think the test will be like?” “Did you hear what last year’s was about?” — small exchanges that grew into casual introductions. Then to favorite songs, to embarrassing stories, to little confessions of who liked whom in class. She had mostly listened — quiet, smiling, standing in that small circle they had formed, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She wasn’t shy, just… selective about where she gave her voice.
No point speaking just to fill the air, she had thought with a faint smile that day.
And she’d been tired too — exhaustion written softly in the droop of her lashes, the slow rhythm of her blinking.
If my family saw me right now, she remembered thinking, they’d tease me for looking like a sleepy kitten again.
The thought had made her hide a smile then, imagining their laughter, the way they’d never let her pout in peace.
Then, as the conversation drifted toward dating, the others grew lively. They begin teasing, joking, recalling exes or awkward confessions. The laughter was light and youthful, ringing through the open space. She laughed too, when it felt right, her smile soft and warm.
Until someone turned to her. “What about you? Anyone special?”
She had blinked, a little surprised by the sudden attention, then smiled faintly and said, in that soft, honest voice of hers,
“I prefer courtship, personally.”
The words didn’t weigh heavy on her tongue. They came out like leaves floating on still water — light, but deliberate.
It wasn’t pride. It wasn’t defiance. It was just her — simple and sincere.
Still, her heart had thudded faster then, not from embarrassment but from exposure.
Why does honesty feel like vulnerability sometimes? she’d wondered.
Most people had blinked at her words, some curious, others intrigued. But he — he had gone still.
His eyes had widened slightly. It was not in shock nor in judgment, and instead in recognition.
And when he’d said quietly, “I feel the same,” her chest had tightened, a fluttering mix of surprise and something deeper — like finding a melody she didn’t know she’d been missing.
That was the first time she had really noticed him.
He’d looked twenty-three, maybe. Messy brown hair, soft and tousled as if he hadn’t quite bothered with it that morning. A white shirt beneath a deep blue open overshirt that hung loose against his frame — simple, clean, effortlessly composed. His beige pants were neatly pressed, a quiet contrast to his relaxed upper half. There was something balanced about him — a kind of quiet masculinity that didn’t press to be seen, that existed comfortably within gentleness.
She remembered how something inside her had stirred that day — a strange, light weight in her chest, almost pleasant, almost frightening.
Since then, there had been small moments. Fleeting glances caught across the hall. The brush of eyes that lasted a second too long. Once, she’d passed him in the corridor and had thought she heard the faintest breath escape him. It was not a word, nor was it even a sigh. It was just acknowledgment, and maybe something else she was too shy to admit.
And every time, when her gaze accidentally met his, it wasn’t discomfort she felt — it was something slower, quieter.
His eyes never lingered where they shouldn’t. They didn’t trace. They didn’t demand. They simply looked. As though trying to understand her before daring to approach.
There was a sincerity there she hadn’t seen before. Something unspoken but safe.
Still, she told herself it was silly.
You’re overthinking, she thought now, clutching the book just a little tighter against her chest. He was probably just polite... agreeing for the sake of conversation. Don’t be ridiculous.
But when she risked a glance — just a small one — he was still there.
Still standing in front of the shelf, but no longer composed. His fingers hovered midair, uncertain, as if he had forgotten what he came for. His hand rested against the shelf’s edge, tense, as though he’d frozen mid-thought. The fabric of his shirt creased at the elbow, his knuckles slightly pale from the pressure. His gaze flickered absently over the book spines, but his eyes weren’t reading — they were elsewhere. His brows were faintly furrowed, not in anger, but in quiet frustration, as if scolding himself.
Was he thinking too?
Then, almost hesitantly, he dared to glance back.
Their eyes met — a heartbeat suspended in still time.
And then—Oh no.
They both snapped their heads away instantly, like children caught mid-thought.
She turned back to the shelf in front of her, her lips pressing together as a slow warmth crept under her skin — softer this time, not sharp like surprise, but warm and slow, like gentle embarrassment blooming just beneath the surface. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her fingers pressing the book closer to her chest, as if its weight might hush her thoughts.
Does he feel the same strange confusion I do…?
It was ridiculous. They didn’t even know each other’s names. They had never had a real conversation outside that one moment three weeks ago. And yet—her stomach twisted in a strange, deep way. Not the kind of pain that hurt, or even felt good. It was just… foreign. Unnamed.
It wasn’t longing. It wasn’t even desire. It was something quieter.
Curiosity.
Something sweet, innocent… and terrifying.
What if I smile and he doesn’t smile back? Would that be worse than saying nothing at all? Would it be strange to start something you don’t understand yet? She parted her lips slightly. Should I say something? Should I—
Before she could finish the thought, she felt a strange warmth from behind her. A sudden shift in the air behind her — close. Too close.
She gasped, the sound caught in her throat, her wide eyes frozen on the spines of the books before her. Her entire body stilled, alert. Her breath caught—until she heard the soft rustle of a familiar page and a faint chuckle she knew by heart.
Ah… It’s just him — but she hadn’t realized yet.
She hadn’t been touched, but the nearness — the subtle shift in the air pressure, the warmth of another body behind hers — sent a cold jolt running down her spine.
Her arms instinctively wrapped around her book, not too tightly, not fearfully, but enough to hold something steady. Her breath hitched — just for a flash of a second.
Who—
Then—A scent. Familiar. Subtle. Gentle.
That faint trace of something soft and musky — clean, calm, and warm — like cedarwood and fresh laundry. The cologne she always recognized.
And a voice — that familiar timbre — warm, reassuring.
“Hey.”
Relief swept through her body like sunlight parting storm clouds.
She turned slowly, back to the shelves now, exhaling with a soft, almost sheepish breath.
It was her older brother.
He had already stepped back after retrieving a book from the top shelf. His warm expression met hers as she looked up — a quiet, familiar comfort that settled her heartbeat again. Her smile wavered just a little, still soft, still warm, but touched with the lingering weight of all that had just passed.
Her arms remained tucked around the book like a gentle shield, but her shoulders finally relaxed.
Twenty-five, tall, his light brown hair brushed neatly back from his face. He wore a plain white t-shirt and jeans — simple, modest — and spoke with the kind of calm that never had to raise its voice to be heard. His presence was like a favorite sweater on a cold morning — not flashy, but always dependable.
“Did you get the books you needed for our study session?” His tone was even, unhurried. His eyes steady and calm.
She nodded, then blinked once before replying, “Y-Yes.” Her voice was gentle, but it wavered slightly — a remnant of too many feelings tangled beneath her ribs.
“Good,” he said with an approving nod, already turning as if expecting her to follow.
And she did.
Her footsteps were soft against the polished floor as she trailed behind him, book still pressed gently to her chest.
As she walked, she glanced to the left — instinctively, subtly.
He was gone.
The boy with the quiet gaze. The one who hadn’t spoken again. Gone — like he’d vanished into the shelves, like a breath of wind slipping through a half-open window.
Huh… Where did he go?
Had he left before she turned? Or was she just too slow to notice?
That ache returned — not sharp, not loud, but present. A little hollow space in her chest, like a story with its middle torn out.
She lowered her gaze, eyes soft with unspoken thought, and continued following her brother down the aisle towards the library door in silence.
You’re being silly, she tried to tell herself again. He doesn’t even know your name.
But still… her fingers curled slightly tighter around the book.
And the warmth in her cheeks never left.
A whisper stirred in her thoughts, shy and small like a paper note tucked between pages.
Maybe next time… I’ll smile first — and if he smiles back, maybe I won’t have to wonder anymore.
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