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Es pulls a book from the shelf with practised ease. Over-practised, one might even say. How many times must she have completed this action—like breathing, it was countless and thoughtless. And certainly not out of the ordinary.
No, nothing was awry today. You had come to visit again; the two of you had read and said little to one another. This was usual. And being in an infinite library with no one else in it, she was sure nothing could possibly have changed since you last did the same.
Except… you wouldn’t stop looking at her.
She supposes this is not terribly uncommon. Should you fail to find satisfaction in a book, you’re well-known for incessantly poking her for some form of attention. But your gazes today do not seem to stem from boredom.
Yes, there it is! Peaking between the covers of her book, Es catches you once more. Your own title is half closed in your hand—barely past the first chapter—and you are most certainly looking at her. But no sooner have your eyes locked, you hastily glance away.
She lowers the book. “Is something the matter?”
You peek up at her. “… No? Why do you ask?”
“You keep looking at me.”
Cheeks colouring, you return to reading with a muffled ‘sorry’.
Such a reaction surprises her. Something so evasive seems unlike you…
Es frowns, fiddling with a corner of her page. “Is something the matter… with me?”
This gets your attention.
“No!” you insist. “Of course not. I just…”
You hold the book to your nose, sighing into the pages. “… I think you’re quite pretty.”
Oh.
Es can’t say she was expecting that. Nor does she seem to understand what is supposed to come next. The recipient of a compliment? A flirtation? What were they supposed to do again?
You think she's pretty. The line swirls in her mind; the word wanders in her thoughts. Pretty. Pretty like a peony, pretty like a palace on high, pretty like a midsummer's day, pretty like a poem— Which one did you mean?
Somehow, breathing no longer seems so practised.
“Es?”
She snaps from her stupor. “T-thank you.”
That’s all she manages before planting her eyes in her book. Nothing more is said, but the quiet almost feels disappointing.
“Sorry,” she adds. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”
There is a pause, and your eyes steadily fill with realisation.
Of course no one’s ever said that; no one’s been here. There’s been no one but Es and books and that façade—and she’d sooner escape from here than hear that thing call her anything decent. Her beauty and how she looked were not things she considered, they were for a world much larger than hers. One with sweethearts and flowers and parents who kiss their children goodnight.
You throw your book aside and step towards her.
“What are you—”
“I love your eyes.”
The declaration strikes her speechless. She merely stands there as you lean in, eyes keen yet gentle.
“I love your hair.”
“… Y-you do?”
You nod. “I think it’s really cool how you can do it in a braid like that.”
Es is blushing. “I— Well, I really like your voice.”
You smile. “I love how your fingers barely touch the pages when you turn them.”
Oh. She hadn’t even noticed that.
What else do you notice about her, she wonders. For all your looks she catches, how many of them she must have missed.
She’s whispering now. “Your voice is like music to me.”
The words linger in the air. Fairy dust and flower petals. Eyes and hair and music and voice; you’re pretty.
Softly, your smile spreads. “No one’s ever said that to me.”
Love. Is that what’s caught in her chest? It flutters and burns in a way she hasn’t felt before. Whatever it is, Es decides, she is never going to let it go.