The library was the only place on campus where no one expected me to pretend and smile.
People came here to bury themselves in books, not in gossip or fake laughs. That suited me. I didn't have the energy for pretending. I walked past rows of students with their laptops glowing and notebooks spread open like they were building walls against each other. Everyone avoided eye contact. Everyone kept their heads down. I liked that.
The truth was, I didn't belong in most places on this campus. Not in the dining hall, where the rich kids spread their designer bags across chairs like territory markers. Not in the parties where music shook the walls and everyone wore the same careless grin. Even in my own apartment, silence pressed too heavy, like the house itself reminded me I was only there because someone else had money to spare.
But here, under the thick smell of old paper and dust, I could breathe.
I set my bag on the table in the far corner, the one where the lights flickered and no one sat for long. It wasn't perfect, but it was mine. I pulled out my casebooks, opened one, and tried to focus on the words. Criminal law. The irony wasn't lost on me. Reading about theories of intent, guilty minds, and reasonable doubt while knowing my own head was a mess of things I couldn't reason out.
My eyes moved across the page, but my thoughts kept slipping. The professor's voice echoed in my head: "The law isn't about emotions. It's about facts, arguments, evidence."
If that was true, then I would fail. Because all I had were emotions. Messy, sharp, drowning ones.
I rubbed my temples, forcing myself to keep reading. My phone buzzed in my bag. I ignored it. Probably my foster mother again, reminding me about another charity dinner, another event where I was supposed to smile, wear a dress she chose, and act grateful for a seat at a table I didn't ask for.
I shoved the thought aside and turned another page. That was when I noticed him.
Not the boy himself—just the sound first. The faint scrape of a chair across the floor. I looked up. A guy had slid into a seat two tables away. He wore a hoodie pulled low, like he wanted to disappear. His fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the table.
I didn't recognize him, but something about the way he sat—too stiff, like his body didn't trust the space—caught my attention. He pulled out a thin notebook, nothing fancy, and opened it carefully, like it held something fragile.
I tried not to stare. Tried to go back to my casebook. But my eyes kept drifting.
His lips moved as he read silently. Not words I could catch, but the habit of someone who needed to see and hear the text at the same time. His pen scratched quickly, almost desperate, like the words were running away from him.
I shouldn't have cared. But for some reason, I did.
The longer I watched, the more I realized something: he wasn't working on class material. The pages he wrote on were covered in names. I couldn't see them clearly, but I recognized the shape of first names, then dates, then numbers written beside them.
A list.
A list of what, I didn't know. But the way his shoulders hunched and his eyes darted to the exits told me it wasn't something he wanted anyone to see.
My throat went dry. I turned back to my book, pretending I hadn't noticed. I wasn't about to get involved in whatever secrets strangers were scribbling down. Not when I had enough of my own.
But then he looked up. His eyes met mine.
Sharp, dark, like he could read exactly what I'd seen. My stomach clenched. For a second, I thought he would get up and leave, take his secrets with him. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, closed the notebook slowly, and smiled. Not a friendly smile. More like a warning.
I dropped my gaze fast. Heat crawled up my neck.
I told myself it didn't matter. He was just some random guy. His business wasn't mine. I had enough to deal with—my classes, my foster family's suffocating expectations, the hole in my chest that grief never stopped digging.
But still, my mind wouldn't let go.
What names were worth writing down in secret? What kind of list needed to be hidden in a library corner?
And why did it feel like I'd just seen something I wasn't supposed to?
I stayed longer than usual that night, forcing myself to copy notes until the words blurred. When I finally packed up, the guy was gone. His chair sat pushed neatly under the table, no trace of him left. Except…
When I walked past his spot, I noticed something on the floor. A scrap of paper, folded once, thin as tissue.
I froze. My heart thudded.
I should've walked away.
I should've left it for the janitor.
But my hand moved before my brain caught up. I bent down, picked it up, and slid it into my pocket.
All the way back to my apartment, I felt it burn against my leg. I didn't open it on the subway. Didn't open it in the elevator. Didn't open it until I was locked inside my room, blinds shut, door closed.
My hands shook as I unfolded the paper. Just one line, written in rushed, jagged handwriting:
"Not all debts are paid in money."
I stared at it until the words blurred. My chest tightened. I didn't understand what it meant. But I knew one thing: it wasn't meant for me.
I couldn't sleep. My textbooks sat open on the desk, but I didn't touch them. Instead, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the note, trying to decide if I was in danger or if I was just paranoid.
Maybe both.
The city outside roared as always—sirens, engines, music blasting from passing cars. But inside, the silence wrapped around me again, thick and crushing.
I hated it.
I hated the quiet because it reminded me of the night my parents died, the night when the world went still in a way that no sound could fix.
So I did what I always did when the silence got too loud: I cried. Quiet, hidden tears, the kind I'd never let anyone see. Not even my so-called family.
Because that was my real secret. Everyone thought I was strong, the foster girl who got lucky, who made it into law school, who sat at dinner tables with crystal glasses and gold-plated silverware. But inside, I was still that kid staring at a coffin, wondering why the world had decided I didn't deserve parents, only strangers.
And now, apparently, I was also the girl with a stranger's secret note burning a hole in her nightstand drawer.
....
The next day at class, I couldn't focus. I kept scanning the lecture hall, searching for the hoodie, the face, the sharp eyes. He wasn't there.
All day, I waited. The cafeteria, the quad, the subway platform. Nothing. By the time I dragged myself back to the library, my pulse was racing with a mix of fear and something I didn't want to admit—curiosity.
I went straight to the corner table. Empty.
Relief and disappointment hit me at the same time. I dropped into my usual seat, spread my books out, and tried to shake it off. Maybe I'd never see him again. Maybe that was for the best.
But deep down, I knew better.
Secrets don't just appear in your life and then vanish. They stick. They wait.
And sooner or later, they make you pay attention.