Chapter Two -
Sam
The thing about poetry is it never fixes anything.
It just teaches you how to bleed prettier.
I stare at the same stanza I've been rereading for the past ten minutes. Sylvia Plath.
The way she writes about fig trees and choices and dying slowly while trying to live-all too dramatic for a Tuesday night. But I get it. God, do I get it.
My desk at home is chaos. Three mugs. One sticky ramen stain. Two overdue books hiding under a half-zipped tote bag.
So I came here instead.
The library's quieter than usual tonight. Hollow, almost. Like it's been waiting for someone to confess in.
My boots click softly on the second floor's old wood panels as I move toward the poetry section. My section. No one ever touches it but me and some weird guy who once asked if I had a favorite sonnet
I slide into the same armchair I always claim near the brick pillar, hidden from the main walkway. I pull my hoodie over my head, crack open my notebook, and start scribbling in the margins of a reading I don't fully understand.
Lines. Words. Arrows. A quote from Audre Lorde I keep coming back to.
"Poetry is not a luxury."
Right now, it feels like one.
My grades have been slipping. Just enough for the panic to set in. I've got two unfinished essays and a midterm that feels like a monster under my bed. It's not that I don't love what I study. I do.
I just don't know how to be good at it anymore.
Like I lost the thread of who I'm supposed to be somewhere between first-year idealism and now.
I blow a strand of hair from my face and try to focus. Just one paragraph. One solid annotation. One line that makes any scence
But then, from the corner of my eye-I feel it.
A glance.
I look up, and there he is.
Same guy from last week.
Second floor. Window table. Black hoodie. Sketchbook. That quiet intensity like he's trying to solve a problem no one else can see.
He's got the kind of posture that says he's been sitting there for hours and a jawline that looks carved out of regret.
Despite his handsome face his eyes say different things about him ,like someone deprived from sleep
He's not looking at me. Not exactly. More like past me. Through me?
Or maybe I imagined it.
I drop my gaze, shake it off.
People look all the time. It doesn't mean anything.
I flip the page and try again.
This time, I read slower. Let the rhythm crawl under my skin.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
God, . Calm down.
Half an hour drifts by. The kind that feels both too fast and achingly still. I steal another glance at him. He's sketching.
The corner of his notebook is angled toward me, but I can't see what he's drawing.
Is it homework? Architecture stuff?
Or... is it something else?
Nope. Doesn't matter. I'm not here for that.
Still I wonder.
He's been here three times now. Same spot. Same hours. I only notice because I'm here too. That's all.
It doesn't mean anything.
Right?
I pull out a highlighter, scribble a messy heart next to a verse I want to use in my essay. My hand's cramping. I shift positions, pull my knees up into the chair.
And then I hear it.
A snap..
Not loud. Just sharp. Like lead breaking.
I glance over again.
He's gripping his pencil like it insulted him. For a second, he looks angry. Or maybe just tired. Or both.
There's something in his eyes that looks like... unraveling.
I recognize it.
I feel it.
But I don't say anything. I don't do anything.
Because this isn't a movie. We're not two lonely souls waiting to collide.
We're just people...In a library.
Trying not to fall apart.
Eventually, I check the time.
"I need to leave "
I've annotated one page.
One. Single. Page.Great.
I shut my notebook with a sigh that feels like it came from somewhere deeper than my lungs. My fingers hurt from holding the pen so tightly. My chest hurts for no reason at all.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and stand. As I walk past his table, I don't look directly at him. But I feel him. That strange awareness again.
The scent of coffee and graphite lingers in the air.
I don't say goodbye. I don't say anything.
But a part of me hopes when I'm gone he'll remember the sound of my footsteps ,or even look back as I leave the library