Laila
The library always smelled like forgotten things. Paper, ink, dust — and quiet regret.
I didn't come here to read today. I came because it's the only place no one watches too closely. Where whispers are allowed — as long as they stay soft.
She was already there when I arrived.
Tracy.
Sitting by the window, the rain casting silver on her sleeves. She looked like something half-formed in a dream — familiar, but too far away to touch.
She didn't see me at first.
So I watched her for a moment longer than I should have.
I don't know what I was hoping for.
Maybe for her to look up and know — just know — that I didn't mean to say yes. That I didn't mean to choose a future where her name didn't fit.
Maybe I wanted her to stop me.
---
She finally saw me.
And smiled.
It was that kind of smile you give someone when you're trying to be strong for them. Kind. Gentle. But tired.
"Hey," she said softly, like a question she already knew the answer to.
"Hey," I said back.
We sat in the silence.
There were a hundred books between us, but the only words I wanted were hers.
---
"I'm leaving next week," I said finally, tracing the edge of a worn-out textbook.
She didn't flinch.
Just nodded.
"For good?"
I swallowed. "Yes."
Her fingers tightened around her pen. Not much. Just enough that I noticed.
"You happy?"
I hated that question.
Because no one ever asks if you're ready — only if you're happy. And sometimes, the two things are so far apart they don't even wave at each other anymore.
I shook my head. "I don't know."
---
There was something trembling inside me. Something trying to leap out of my throat. I wanted to say: Tell me to stay. Please.
But instead, I asked, "Can I sit here a while?"
She moved her books.
And that was her answer.
---
We sat too close for friends and too far for lovers.
And I could feel it again — the almost.
Our arms brushed when we reached for the same paper.
She didn't pull away. Neither did I.
The air smelled like old ink and endings.
She whispered, "Laila…"
And that was all.
Just my name.
But it landed like a prayer.
---
I turned to her. Really turned.
Our knees touched.
Our breaths slowed.
Her eyes were darker than usual, like they were hiding something — or maybe holding something too delicate to say.
My hand moved without thinking. It reached toward hers.
We touched.
Fingers, barely entwined.
Not a kiss. Not yet.
Just that one moment where it all could've happened.
And then — the bell rang.
Too sharp. Too soon.
---
We pulled away like it burned.
We both stood.
Not looking at each other now.
And yet…
> I felt something had changed. Not everything. Not enough. But something.
She gathered her books. I watched the way her fingers shook.
Then I said, too quietly, "Don't forget me."
She didn't answer right away.
Then:
> "I couldn't. Even if I tried."
---