For the next few days, the library became her sanctuary.
Classes ended, chatter faded, and while most students rushed home, she lingered—always making her way toward that corner table, where the old diary patiently awaited her.
Each time she opened it, new words appeared, written in that same steady hand.
Sometimes short, sometimes thoughtful, sometimes quietly teasing.
"You ask if I want someone to listen. Maybe. Or maybe I just want to write without being judged."
"Do you believe people can really understand each other just through words on paper?"
She found herself smiling at his questions, frowning at his uncertainties, even whispering small replies aloud before she wrote them down.
The diary was no longer just a notebook. It had become a bridge—connecting two strangers who had never spoken face-to-face.
Yet curiosity gnawed at her.
Every time she capped her pen, her gaze would wander, scanning the rows of bookshelves, wondering if he was near.
Who was he?
Had she already walked past him in the hallway?
Had their eyes ever met without recognition?
One afternoon, as she placed the diary back into its hiding place, she hesitated. Her pen hovered above the last page she had written, and then, almost impulsively, she added one more line:
"I don't know who you are. But somehow, I feel lighter every time I write to you. If I ever saw you in person… would I recognize you?"
Her heart raced as she shut the notebook quickly, almost afraid of her own words.
What she didn't see—what she could never have seen—was the boy seated only a few tables away, head bent over his textbook, glasses reflecting the golden afternoon light.
Lin Qiran's fingers paused on his pen. The corner of his lips twitched upward.
And for the first time, he considered an answer not meant for paper, but for the fragile space between them.