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The dust nearly catches in your face as you slip a handful of books from the philosophy section. It's not a very graceful sight, chin doubling as you lean away, but this part of your day usually leaves much to be desired.
On your shoulders and trickling down your spine is the week ahead: classes on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday. A shift here at the library today and Wednesday. Two closing shifts at the cafe for Friday and Sunday. An eye appointment on Saturday, if you can remember to book it. The rest of your laundry, if you can squeeze it in. Maybe a lunch with Mikasa before work, since you haven't caught up in a while, but she's been a little loose on texting back since getting with her childhood best friend.
This is what it means to be a person, right?
Doing things, existing, working so you don't lose your nice shared accommodation, and your phone plan, and… everything.
You stare idly once the one part of the shelf is empty, ready to be cleaned with an old detergent bottle and a flimsy micro-fibre wipe. You can see your hands moving, but you can't say you feel a hundred percent behind the wheel.
Just moving on autopilot. You wonder if it'll ever go away, that feeling.
Outside of that, your brain flickers a moment from yesterday. Amidst washing dishes with Pieck, she shared an anecdote of a sour moment with her boyfriend. You remember making a wry comment, all the exact words now lost on you, all but the ones that flew out of her mouth without a second thought.
"At least I'm getting some."
It didn't necessarily push you into a deep end of insecurity, nor do you feel largely upset about it now, because it's true.
You don't disagree; it has been a while since you've entertained anything beyond an occasional one-night stand or talking stage… or anything, for that matter. Maybe you're just a bit peeved that your roommate would make such a critically superficial comment in the first place, at her grown age.
But it echoes in your head anyway.
Since deciding to take your academics seriously, it's a miracle you're even maintaining somewhat of a consistent social life. You reckon there's no point in paddling in trivial thoughts and distractions of romance and all that for now.
You're fine.
Better than fine, actually. You're keeping busy, and you're on your own two feet.
Pieck probably just turned into one of those people who think that having a partner is the 'default', you think to yourself as you try to will the quiet chagrin away, lips pursing in focus.
Stupid. Just clean the shelves. Stop thinking about it.
You reach the top shelf at the end of the aisle after a gruelling fifteen minutes, the leather binds wide and thick as they press together. Jesus, when was the last time they were even moved?
But your toes can only take you so high, and the dumb kick stool is nowhere to be found, so your fingers aggressively fumble in frustration. Then, it accidentally slides forward under your force, past the open threshold on the other side.
A small thud, then a heavier thud, and a hushed, "Huh?!"
The sharp voice makes you shiver, hurrying over with jittery hands and a scared frown.
And it just has to be a tall, attractive brunette. Great.
"I'm so sorry," you whisper immediately, eyeing the pinch of his brows, the clench of his jaw, the rather distinct way he's shaved his stubble…
A glance down at your own self, and you feel the consequences of not giving your outfit much thought this morning: a baggy concert tee tucked into some plain slacks and a pair of old, coffee-grind-stained runners. That, on top of having no makeup on and your skin a tad oily from the weak AC in here. Man.
You brace yourself for a reasonably vexed response. It never comes.
"No, no, it's fine, just…" the guy sighs, picking up the book. His eyes scan the cover with a slight raise of the brow. "Here's your Jung," he says, clearing his throat and handing it to you.
You accept it, nose crinkling briefly at the hard 'J'. "Jung. Nordic pronunciation. Sorry. And thanks."
Something rouses on his expression, but you don't know what, and that makes you cringe even more on the inside. You borderline assaulted him with a collection of old works, yet you dared to correct him on something so insignificant.
Before you can slink away to avoid any further human contact for the day, his mouth opens.
"Paramore, right?" The corners of his lips tilt slightly, an open and bright look as he points to your shirt.
Every nerve in your body sings praises to the gods that you don't trip on your own feet.
No, you are steady, you are normal, and you blink at him as you register his inquiry.
"Oh, uh—yeah," You give a wobbly smile, looking down at the design with warm cheeks. "From their show three years ago. A spiritual experience, honestly."
He grins, "Jealous. Hopefully they'll do another tour, or something. It looks cool," a pause, a hand reaching to scratch his neck. "On you, I mean."
Something light springs in your chest from the mere few exchanges of words. He could have just left it at the tour part. He could have just said it looks cool—by the way, who even says that about a shirt anymore? Why did he have to specify that it looked good on you specifically?
It's so simple, so silly. Maybe he's flirting, or maybe he's just as awkward as you are. Either way, he's not taking his eyes off you, and, unnaturally, you return his gaze without floundering.
Without thinking, you hear yourself say, "It's not fair that I almost gave you a concussion… would you accept an apology coffee? On me, obviously."
There's a silent trill of anticipation in the corners of your world. This was not on your agenda today, hell, not in the rest of the semester. But you feel yourself step into your own body, your own agency, and it surprises you how easy it is to just ask someone out. Like it was this easy, all along.
Well, with the right kind of company, at least.
You'll find out if he says yes. Something in your gut feels right about this.
"Sure, I'd like that," he laughs softly, his features calm, yet his cheeks growing a faint pink. "And the name is Jean. French pronunciation."
You give Jean a bashful chuckle in return, along with your name.
The two of you coordinate your schedules for the day and go to the cafe later in the evening, exchanging pieces of yourselves with the other over pleasant conversation, banter, and warm, cosy beverages.
Thankfully, no concussions. No regrets, either.