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The morning sun slanted through the tall library windows, drawing long golden stripes across the wooden tables. Dust motes drifted slowly in those pillars of light, as if suspended in time. Cecilia Immergreen sat in her usual spot—by the window, at the far end of the room, where it was quiet enough to hear her own breathing. In front of her lay an open book on the history of architecture; beside it, a neat stack of notes written in even, almost calligraphic handwriting. The pencil lay perfectly parallel to the notebook. Everything in its place.
She ran a finger along a line of text, but she didn’t read a single word. Her gaze lingered on the way the sunlight fell on the page, making the paper almost translucent. In moments like this—rare, quiet—she felt that the world was arranged correctly. That there were laws things obeyed. That chaos could be tamed if you tried hard enough. If you kept your back straight. If you didn’t let your emotions take over.
The silence was torn by the sound of footsteps—quick, uneven, not at all suited to a library. Cecilia recognized them before she looked up. She recognized them by the rhythm: three fast steps, then a stumble, as if the person had tripped over their own energy. She recognized them by the rustle of fabric—soft, clearly an oversized hoodie—brushing against the doorframe.
“I know, I know, I’m late,” Gigi Murin practically tumbled into the library, and her whisper was louder than most people’s normal conversation. “But you won’t believe what happened! First I overslept because I stayed up late watching a stupid series, and then, when I was running out, my shoelace caught on the chair and I almost wrecked half the room, and then in the corridor I ran into Raven, and she told me this whole thing…”
She dropped onto the chair opposite Cecilia—not sitting, but dropping, with all her weight, making the chair squeak in protest. The orange hoodie was, as always, a couple of sizes too big. The light and dark strands of her hair stuck out in every direction, as if she hadn’t even tried to comb them. There was a pillow crease on her cheek. Sparks danced in her pink eyes.
Cecilia slowly raised her eyes.
“You’re forty minutes late,” she said evenly. There was no reproach in her voice. Only a statement of fact.
“Thirty-seven!” Gigi held up a finger, as if that changed anything. “I timed it. And anyway, you know I can’t be like you—waking up an hour early, laying everything out with a ruler, arriving on time. My internal clock works… differently. Creatively.”
“Creatively,” Cecilia repeated. It wasn’t a question. Rather, she was tasting the word—and she didn’t like it.
Gigi had already pulled out a crumpled notebook, a pen without a cap, and a half-eaten apple from her backpack. She spilled it all onto the desk, disrupting the geometry of the order Cecilia had been maintaining for the past hour. The apple rolled and stopped, resting against her notes. Cecilia looked at it. At the wet mark it left on the paper. She said nothing.
“Alright, let’s study,” Gigi opened the notebook to the middle, flipped through several pages looking for the right one, then frowned. “Wait, what subject are we even studying for?”
“History of Architecture. We discussed this yesterday. And the day before. And three days ago.”
“Oh, right! Gothic, yeah? Or Baroque? I always mix them up.”
Cecilia closed her eyes—just for a second. When she opened them again, her face was as calm as before. Only her fingers squeezed the pencil a little harder.
“Gothic,” she said. “Section three, page one hundred and forty-two.”
“You’re so organised,” Gigi smiled—wide, sincere, that smile that usually made people forgive her anything. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. Seriously. You’re my anchor.”
Anchor.
The word lodged somewhere between them, hanging in the air along with the dust motes. Cecilia said nothing. She watched as Gigi, tilting her head, tried to decipher her own handwriting in the notebook. As she frowned, biting her lip. As her fingers—always moving—tapped a rhythm on the table that only she could hear.
In moments like this, Cecilia almost forgot her irritation. Almost.
“Listen, so these flying buttresses,” Gigi looked up, “they’re like, on the outside, right? So what are they for if everything holds up anyway?”
“They are not ‘like on the outside,’ they are on the outside,” Cecilia pulled the book toward her, opened it to the right page. “A flying buttress is an external supporting arch that transfers the load from the vault to an external pillar. Without them, the walls couldn’t bear the weight of the stone ceiling. It’s an engineering solution that made huge rose windows possible.”
“Cool,” Gigi leaned forward, studying the diagram. “So these things hold up the whole massive thing, but nobody sees them because they’re outside?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“Like a secret framework,” Gigi smirked. “Beautiful on the outside, but actually everything rests on props like that.”
Cecilia froze. Something in that phrase scratched at her—she didn’t even know what. Just that for a second, she felt unsettled. As if Gigi had accidentally hit a spot Cecilia tried not to think about.
“Let’s get back to the material,” she said, looking away.
The next hour passed in relative calm. Cecilia explained, Gigi interrupted, asked strange questions, got distracted by phone notifications, returned to the topic. This was their usual rhythm: Cecilia created a structure, Gigi shook it. And every time Cecilia felt an invisible string tightening inside her. A little more—and it would ring. But she kept quiet. She always kept quiet.
“Done, I can’t anymore,” Gigi leaned back in her chair, tilting her head back. “My brain is melting. Can we take a break? Please-please-please?”
“We’ve only just started.”
“We’ve been at it for an hour!”
“Fifty-two minutes, of which you’ve talked for about twenty, and on topic—even less.”
“See!” Gigi was completely unembarrassed. “I need a reset. Let’s go get coffee? My treat. The café on the corner has a seasonal menu—green tea, can you imagine?”
Cecilia imagined it. The queue. The noise. The smell of coffee and syrups. Gigi chatting with the barista. Fifteen minutes lost, if not more. The study plan thrown off. Unpredictability she couldn’t control.
“We have an exam in a week,” she reminded her.
“That’s exactly why we need coffee! So we don’t go crazy from all this Gothic. Come on, Ceci,” Gigi leaned forward, folding her hands in a pleading gesture, “one green tea. Ten minutes. I promise I’ll be the most diligent student in the world afterwards.”
The pink eyes looked at her with such hope, such puppy-like pleading, that it was almost impossible to refuse. Almost. But today, something inside Cecilia didn’t respond. The string pulled tighter.
“Go alone,” she said. “I’ll wait here.”
Gigi blinked. Her smile wavered for a moment—but only for a moment.
“Okay,” she got up easily, grabbed her backpack. “I’ll be quick. One foot here, the other there. By the way, you’re green tea—I remember you like it.”
She left—as quickly and noisily as she’d arrived. Cecilia stayed alone. Around her, silence again. Order. Sunlight, dust motes, the architecture book. Everything in its place. Perfect. Right.
So why was it suddenly so hard to breathe?
She lowered her gaze to the open page. The lines blurred. She was looking at the diagram of a flying buttress—a stone arch that takes on someone else’s weight—and she thought that Gigi, without knowing it, had hit the nail on the head. Beautiful on the outside. And inside—props no one sees.
Gigi came back twenty minutes later—not ten, as she’d promised. She brought two cups, one of which was already half empty. She held out a cup of green tea to Cecilia, scalding hot, and smiled, not guilty at all.
“The queue was so long, you wouldn’t believe it! But I ran into Liz, she says hi. And guess what she told me?..”
Cecilia took the cup. Said nothing.
She didn’t know that a few weeks later she’d be remembering that day—an ordinary, unremarkable day in the library—and thinking: that was when everything was still normal. That was when she still believed she could fix everything. That if she were patient enough, organised enough, strong enough—the chaos would recede. Gigi would stay. And she herself… she herself wouldn’t break.
But that was later. For now—she drank her green tea, listened to another one of Gigi’s stories, and didn’t know the crack had already started. Thin, almost invisible. Like in stonework that no one had repaired for too long.
---
Autumn turned to winter—that grey, damp time of year when the campus loses its colour and people become more irritable. Exams approached relentlessly, and every day the air in the lecture halls grew tenser. Cecilia felt it—she felt a lot of things, she just didn’t show it. It was her gift and her curse: noticing the tiniest shifts in tone, glance, gesture. And saying nothing.
That morning they’d arranged to meet in the library again. Cecilia arrived fifteen minutes early—as always. She took their usual table. Laid out the books, the notes, the study cards she’d made especially for Gigi: brief, bright, with coloured diagrams. She’d spent three evenings on them, but she didn’t mention it. She simply placed them on the table beside the seat where Gigi usually sat.
Twenty minutes after the agreed time, Gigi still wasn’t there.
After thirty minutes, Cecilia wrote a message: “Are you coming soon?”
The reply came seven minutes later: “Sorry-sorry-sorry!! I overslept, running!!”
Cecilia put down her phone. She looked at the cards. At the cooling tea. At the empty chair opposite. Something inside her tightened—not for the first time, and, she knew, not the last. It was a feeling like a cold droplet slowly trickling down her spine. Not pain. More like the premonition of pain, which is almost worse than the pain itself, because it lasts longer.
Gigi appeared forty minutes later. Dishevelled, out of breath, with a spot of toothpaste on the sleeve of her orange hoodie. She looked as if a pack of dogs had been chasing her—and at the same time, as if this was the most ordinary morning of her life.
“I’m a monster, I know,” she burst out, falling into the chair. “Forgive me. Seriously. I set three alarms, but they all went off in some wrong way. Or I turned them off in my sleep. Anyway, I’m here.”
“You’re here,” Cecilia repeated.
“And you made cards!” Gigi grabbed one, twirled it in her fingers. “God, Ceci, you’re a saint. Do you ever sleep or do you just prepare for exams?”
Cecilia wanted to reply with something even, calm. But the string inside her, pulled day after day, week after week, suddenly quivered.
“I waited for you for forty minutes,” she said. Her voice was still even, but there was a new note in it—low, muted. “We agreed on nine. It’s almost ten now.”
Gigi raised her eyes from the card. Her smile dimmed a little.
“I know, I’m sorry. I really tried…”
“You always try,” Cecilia spoke slowly, as if each word cost her effort. “But we’re late every time. Every. Single. Time. For two months now. You promise—and you’re late. I wait—and you’re late again. It happens over and over, and…”
She fell silent. What was trying to break out was too big, too sharp. She couldn’t let it out.
Gigi put down the card. Her face had changed—she was no longer smiling. But she didn’t look guilty either. More like watchful. Like someone who’d heard footsteps behind her and didn’t yet know if it was a friend or an enemy.
“You never said it was a problem,” she said cautiously.
“I didn’t think it needed to be said,” Cecilia finally met her eyes. “I thought it was obvious. When someone is constantly late, constantly distracted, can’t focus on what they’re asked to do…”
“Asked to do?” Gigi lifted her chin almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t know we had a relationship of ‘asker’ and ‘obligated’.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what?”
A pause. The sun outside slid behind a cloud, and the library grew darker. Cecilia looked at the girl sitting opposite—at her messy hair, her pink eyes which now seemed not sparkly but prickly—and felt a wall growing between them. Invisible, but tangible. Built from all the unspoken words, all the swallowed grievances, all the moments when one waited and the other didn’t come.
“I just want you to take things seriously,” Cecilia finally said. “Studying. Agreements. Me.”
“I take you seriously!” For the first time, a sharp note cut through Gigi’s voice. She tried to soften it with a chuckle, but the chuckle came out nervous, jerky. “Look, so I’m late, yeah, so what? It’s not the end of the world. I’m here, with you, isn’t that what matters?”
“You’re here,” Cecilia repeated her words, but in her mouth they sounded different. Heavier. “And tomorrow? In a week? In a month? We make plans—and I never know whether you’ll show up or not. Whether you’ll be here or decide there’s something more interesting.”
“I never said there’s anything more interesting than you,” Gigi frowned. “Why do you even think that? Is it because of the lateness? Because I don’t sit over books with a stone face like…” She cut herself off, but the word had almost sounded. Like you.
Cecilia heard the unspoken. She heard it—and said nothing. Only her fingers, resting on the table, tightened slightly.
“It’s not about the books,” she said quietly. “It’s that you always leave.”
Silence. So deep you could hear the wind outside throwing dry leaves against the windows.
“What?” Gigi’s voice wavered.
“You never stay when it gets hard,” Cecilia looked straight at her, and in her green eyes there was something Gigi had never seen before. Not anger. Not hurt. Something far more frightening—weariness. Deep, old weariness, like water at the bottom of a well. “Every time we need to talk about something important, you joke. Every time I try to say something serious, you change the subject. Every time emotions get… uncomfortable, you run.”
“I don’t run!” Gigi straightened abruptly. Her voice grew louder, and the librarian at the desk threw them a warning look. Gigi lowered her tone, but now it vibrated with tension. “So you want me to just stand there and listen? Stand like… like a little soldier while you tell me everything I’m doing wrong?”
“I want you not to run away,” Cecilia said it very quietly, but each word fell between them like a stone into water. “Just don’t run away. For once.”
Something changed in Gigi’s face. For a second—just a second—her eyes became entirely different. Not prickly, not defensive. Afraid. As if Cecilia had looked into a place Gigi never let anyone see. The place where fear lived—sticky, cold, old as the world. The fear of being a burden. The fear of being inconvenient. Too loud. Too chaotic. Too complicated to be… loved.
But Gigi didn’t know how to talk about that. She didn’t know how to talk about such things at all. Her entire arsenal—jokes, smiles, quick steps away from any pain. And now her face twitched, as if she was trying to pull on her familiar mask, but the mask had cracked.
“I’m not running away,” she said, and her voice sounded muffled, unnatural. “It’s just… maybe it’d be easier for you if I wasn’t around? You love silence. You love when everything goes according to plan. And I’m always ruining everything.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to. I can see it.”
Gigi stood up. Abruptly, clumsily, catching her backpack on the chair. The chair wobbled. Cecilia flinched. For a second their eyes met—green with pink—and in that intersection there were more words than they’d ever spoken to each other. And then Gigi turned away.
“I have to go,” she threw over her shoulder.
“Wait.”
But Gigi was already walking toward the exit. Not looking back. Footsteps—quick, uneven, the very ones Cecilia would recognize out of a thousand. They grew distant. Faded. And then the door slammed.
Cecilia was left alone. Around her lay the neat cards she had spent three evenings making. Cold tea. The architecture book, open to the page with Gothic cathedrals. Light from the window fell on the empty chair opposite. She sat and stared at that chair. Silence rang in her ears—not the cosy, morning silence she loved, but a different one. Hollow. Empty. Like a cathedral after all the parishioners have left.
She could have gotten up. Gone after Gigi. Caught up with her and said… what? That she hadn’t meant it? That she was just tired? That she was scared—just as scared as, maybe, Gigi herself was?
But Cecilia didn’t get up. She kept sitting. Her hands motionless on the table. Her back straight. Her face calm.
For the first time in her life, she didn’t go after her.
And that stillness—voluntary, conscious—frightened her more than any chaos.
---
The days after the fight stretched slowly, like cold treacle. Cecilia returned to the library every day—out of habit, out of inertia, because she didn’t know where else to go. She sat at the same table, laid out her books, looked at the empty chair opposite. Sometimes she thought she heard familiar footsteps. Her heart skipped a beat—and stilled when the footsteps passed by.
Gigi didn’t come. Didn’t write. Didn’t appear in the places where they used to cross paths. At first, Cecilia thought: It’s temporary. She’ll cool down. She’ll come back. Like she always came back. You just have to wait. You just have to…
But days turned into weeks. A week—an eternity.
The campus lived its own life: students hurried to lectures, the corner café brewed that very green tea, the heating hummed in the lecture halls. For everyone else, everything was normal. For Cecilia, the world became quieter. Sharper. As if someone had removed the background noise, and now she heard every sound too loudly: her own breathing, footsteps down an empty corridor, the thud of her heart at four in the morning.
She tried to convince herself that this was better. Order. Silence. No one was late. No one was distracting. She could study as much as she wanted. She could plan her day down to the minute. She could control everything.
But control brought no relief. It just… was. Like an empty frame where a picture used to hang.
In the evenings, Cecilia sat by the window and looked at the campus lights. She thought about how she had made a mistake. Not that day, not in that conversation—earlier. She’d made a mistake at the very start, when she decided that structure could hold a person. That if she were proper enough, reliable enough, convenient enough—no one would leave. But people aren’t Gothic cathedrals. You can’t hold them with flying buttresses. They don’t need external supports; they need something else entirely. Something Cecilia didn’t know how to give.
Or maybe she did. She was just afraid.
There was a bitter irony in that: they were both afraid of the same thing. Just in different ways. Cecilia was afraid of being left—so she tried to control everything. Gigi was afraid of becoming a burden—so she left first, without waiting to be asked to leave. Two fears, mirroring each other. Two people who could have understood each other better than anyone—if only they had spoken.
But they didn’t speak.
Gigi, during that time, sat in her own room—or in someone else’s, at a friend’s place—and stared at the ceiling. Music played in her headphones, but she didn’t hear it. Before her eyes stood Cecilia’s face—not from that moment in the library, but earlier. In the morning. When the sunlight fell on her light hair, and she looked like a porcelain figurine. Composed. Beautiful. Infinitely distant.
“You always leave.”
The words lodged inside like a splinter. Gigi tossed and turned at night, replaying their conversation in her head. She didn’t leave. She just… gave Cecilia a chance to breathe in peace. Without noise. Without lateness. Without chaos. That was what Cecilia wanted, wasn’t it?
“I want you not to run away.”
No. Not that.
Gigi closed her eyes. She imagined how it could have been: she returns to the library. Sits opposite Cecilia. Says, “I’m here. I’m not leaving. I’m just scared. I just think you deserve someone better. Someone who isn’t late and doesn’t joke when they should be serious.” And Cecilia replies…
But Gigi didn’t know what Cecilia would reply. Because she’d never given her the chance. She left before. She always left before.
“If she didn’t come after me—then she doesn’t need me.”
That thought was convenient. It allowed her to do nothing. Allowed her to stay in the cocoon of her own rightness. If Cecilia didn’t want to chase after her—then it was right. Then she really had been a burden. Then leaving was the correct decision.
But that same thought kept her awake at night.
Because somewhere deep—so deep it was terrifying to look—Gigi had hoped Cecilia would come after her. Would say, “Wait.” Would stop her. And the fact that she didn’t do it hurt far more than any words.
She didn’t come after me.
So I was right.
So I’m not important.
So there’s no need to go back.
---
The winter term was drawing to a close. Exams were over; the campus gradually emptied—students were leaving for the holidays. Cecilia had passed everything with top marks, of course. She didn’t know any other way. But when she looked at her grades, she felt nothing—no joy, no satisfaction. Just a tick on a to-do list. Just another controlled result.
She had almost come to terms with it. Almost convinced herself that life without Gigi was fine. Calm. Right. After all, people come and go. That’s how it is. It’s natural. No need to dramatise.
But sometimes—in random moments—it crashed over her.
In the café, when the barista asked, “Your usual green tea?”
On the street, when a flash of orange caught her eye—someone else’s hoodie—and her heart clenched before her brain could understand it wasn’t Gigi.
In the library, where the empty chair opposite had become something like a monument. A monument to what she hadn’t been able to hold onto.
Cecilia held on. She had always held on. Back straight. Face calm. Emotions—locked inside. But at night, when no one could see, she lay with her eyes open and thought: “If she didn’t come back—then she doesn’t want to. Then everything we had wasn’t real. Then I was wrong.”
They were thinking the exact same thing. Nearly word for word.
If she didn’t come back—then she doesn’t want to.
If she didn’t come after me—then I’m not needed.
Two mirrors set facing each other. An endless corridor of reflections, in which neither took a step.
---
The last week before the holidays was cold. The snow hadn’t fallen yet, but the air already smelled of winter—sharp, dry, making people huddle into scarves. Cecilia was walking across campus, coming back from the dean’s office. She was thinking that she needed to pick up her books from the library—the very ones she still hadn’t returned, because she still went there to study. Out of habit. Out of stupidity. Out of…
She lifted her eyes and stopped.
On the other side of the square, by the fountain that hadn’t worked since October, stood Gigi.
She wasn’t alone—there was a group of people around her, probably coursemates. They were laughing, discussing something. Gigi stood sideways to Cecilia; her two-toned hair was just as messy, the orange hoodie just as crumpled. She didn’t see Cecilia. She was smiling. Or maybe just stretching her lips—Cecilia couldn’t quite tell.
Her heart skipped a beat. Then another. Cecilia felt the blood rush to her cheeks while her hands turned icy. She could have walked past. She could have turned onto a different path, pretended she hadn’t noticed. That would have been easier. More correct. Gigi didn’t want to see her—that was obvious. She hadn’t come, hadn’t written, hadn’t…
But her legs carried her forward on their own.
They drew closer slowly—two figures against the grey winter sky. Cecilia saw Gigi turn her head. Saw her notice her. Saw her smile—or what had been a smile—disappear. Saw her say something to her friends and step aside.
They stopped a few paces from each other. The fountain was silent. Students hurried past, but for the two of them, time froze.
“Hi,” said Cecilia.
“Hi,” answered Gigi.
And that was it. Nothing more. Just two words, hanging in the frosty air. No accusations. No excuses. No “I missed you” or “I’m sorry.” Just two people who had once been something important to each other, now standing with nothing to say.
Gigi shifted her weight from foot to foot. Her eyes—pink, vivid—looked somewhere to the side, at the edge of the fountain, at the dead leaves frozen to the stone.
“How are you?” she asked. A stupid question. Empty. But there were no others left.
“Fine,” said Cecilia. “And you?”
“Same. Passed my exams. Well, almost all of them. History of Architecture I barely scraped through. Without your cards it was… hard.”
A pause. The word “cards” fell between them like a reminder. Like a reproach. Though Gigi didn’t seem to mean it as one.
“I’m glad you passed,” Cecilia said it sincerely, but her voice came out muted. As if the words were passing through some kind of filter, losing their warmth.
Gigi finally raised her eyes. She looked at her—closely, for a long time. And in that look was something that made Cecilia’s throat tighten. As if Gigi was searching for something. Waiting. Hoping. But Cecilia stood motionless. Her face revealed nothing. Her back was straight.
“Well,” Gigi stuffed her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “I have to… go. They’re waiting.”
“Of course.”
“So… bye.”
“Bye.”
Gigi turned and walked away. Cecilia watched her go. She saw the retreating back—steps quick, but somehow uncertain. As if her legs were walking but her body was resisting.
And then—Cecilia noticed. She noticed what probably no one else would have. Gigi took a step… and faltered. Almost imperceptibly. Just a tiny bit. Her back tensed; her shoulders gave a small jerk. She almost stopped.
Almost.
A second. Two.
And she kept walking.
Cecilia stood and watched. Her own lips trembled—she almost called out to her. Almost took a step forward. Almost…
Almost was not enough.
They parted. Different directions, different paths across the campus. Cecilia walked towards the library—she didn’t even know why. Gigi—towards her friends who were waiting for her, and who wouldn’t have waited if she had decided to go back. But she didn’t decide.
In Cecilia’s head beat a single thought—simple, clear, like the toll of a bell: “Say something.”
In Gigi’s head—another, but just as simple: “Stop me.”
No one said. No one stopped.
The wind chased dry leaves across the asphalt. The sun—pale, wintry—hid behind the clouds. The campus lived its own life, indifferent to the two girls who had just walked past each other. Past their chance. Past what could have been, if only one of them had turned around, and the other had taken a step.
They both almost turned around.
But “almost” was not enough.
Cecilia reached the library, climbed the steps, pushed open the heavy door. Inside it was warm and quiet. She walked to their table—that very one, by the window. Sat down. Placed her hands on the wooden surface. Looked at the empty chair opposite. It no longer seemed like a monument. It was just a chair. Wooden, old, covered in scratches.
She no longer felt anger. No longer felt hurt. Only emptiness—as vast and silent as this hall in the evening hour. She thought about how everything could have been different. If she had gone after Gigi that very first day. If she had said “Wait.” If she hadn’t played the porcelain doll who needed nothing.
But she hadn’t done it. And Gigi hadn’t done it. And now between them there wasn’t just distance—there was an abyss, dug by two pairs of hands. By silence. By pride. By fear.
She opened the architecture book—the very one, to the page with the Gothic cathedrals. Looked at the diagram of the flying buttress. Thought: “Beautiful on the outside, but actually everything rests on props.”
She closed the book.
Outside the window, it was getting dark. Somewhere in another part of campus, Gigi sat with friends, laughed at other people’s jokes, and felt the same thing Cecilia did: an emptiness that noise couldn’t fill. She was thinking, too, that everything could have been different. That she could have come back. Could have written. Could have said, “I’m scared, but I want to try.” But she hadn’t done it. And now the only thing left to her was carrying this “almost” inside. Like a stone in her pocket. Like an invisible prop holding up a façade.
That night, snow began to fall. The first snow of the year. Big flakes settled on roofs, on trees, on empty benches. The campus turned white, clean, as if winter was trying to erase everything that had come before it. But beneath the snow, traces remained—invisible, but real. Two people walking in opposite directions. Two hearts that had almost turned around.
Almost.
It wasn’t enough.