I tried to convince myself it was a coincidence.
That the boy in the lecture hall, the shadow in the cafeteria, the eyes I felt burning into my back—they weren't the same person. That I was overthinking, imagining things, feeding an anxiety I should've buried years ago.
But deep down, I knew better.
I felt it in my bones.
And when it finally happened—when he finally spoke to me—I almost wished I'd been wrong.
It was late afternoon. The campus library was quieter than usual, sunlight filtering through tall windows and scattering across the wooden tables. Mia had gone off to meet a study group, leaving me alone, surrounded by silence and the faint rustle of pages turning.
I liked libraries. They were safe, predictable. Everyone was too busy working to notice me.
At least, that's what I thought.
I was bent over my notebook, sketching absentmindedly between lines of notes, when a voice cut through the stillness.
"Pretty."
My head jerked up, startled.
He stood across the table. Dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, posture relaxed, hands in his pockets like he belonged there. But his gaze—steady, unflinching—was anything but casual.
"I'm sorry?" My voice came out softer than I intended, almost a whisper.
"Your drawing." His chin tilted toward the notebook in front of me. "It's pretty."
I quickly closed it, heat rushing to my cheeks. "It's nothing. Just a habit."
His lips curved, not quite a smile—something sharper. "Nothing doesn't look like that."
I didn't know what to say. My pulse thundered in my ears, my fingers tightening around my pen. Every instinct screamed at me to leave, but my body wouldn't move.
He slid into the chair across from me without asking, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table. His presence filled the space, leaving no air between us.
"I've seen you around," he said smoothly, voice low but clear.
My throat went dry. "Oh."
He studied me for a moment, his eyes tracing over my face like he was memorizing each line. There was no hesitation, no shyness—just quiet possession in the way he looked at me.
"You don't talk much, do you?"
"I—I guess not," I admitted, fumbling with the edge of my notebook.
"That's good," he murmured. "Means you don't waste words."
Something in his tone made my skin prickle, like there was a meaning hidden beneath the compliment.
I forced myself to ask, "And you are…?"
He leaned back slightly, his gaze never breaking from mine. "Adrian."
The name settled between us like a stone dropped in still water. Simple, but heavy.
I nodded quickly, not trusting myself to say more.
For a long moment, silence stretched. He didn't fidget, didn't glance away, didn't move like normal people did. He just watched me. Like he had all the time in the world.
Finally, he stood, his chair scraping softly against the floor.
"See you around, Arielle."
My breath hitched.
I hadn't told him my name.
The moment he walked away, the library suddenly felt colder.
I stared at the closed notebook in front of me, my heart pounding, my mind spinning with questions I didn't dare say out loud.
He knew my name.
He knew me.
And now…
he was no longer a shadow.