They often met in the library.
He liked to sit by the window, flipping through thick classics.
She liked to lower her head, quietly writing poems.
Sometimes, he would pass her a note with only a line written:
"If we write together, will our lives intertwine as well?"
Her cheeks flushed, but she smiled.
From then on, every day was filled with words, ink, and the faint fragrance of books.
Their bond grew silently, like ivy climbing along the walls, entwined and inseparable.