Ep:2

...Hushed Pages...

The library was quieter than usual that day.

Late afternoon light spilled through the high arched windows, falling in soft patterns across the stone floor. Dust floated in the golden air, dancing like tiny spirits above the heads of students hunched over desks, necks bent, eyes heavy with fatigue.

Williams sat in his usual seat—third row from the back, behind a pillar. Not too close, not too far. Just close enough to see her.

Tessa was already there.

She didn’t notice him. She never did.

Her headphones were in, wires trailing into the collar of her jacket. One hand supported her chin, the other turned the page of a thick book that looked older than the table she sat at. She moved like time didn’t matter. As if the world outside the page didn’t exist. That’s what always struck him the most—her stillness. It wasn’t laziness or boredom. It was intentional. She lived inside herself. Fully.

He watched as her foot tapped quietly beneath the table, just once. Then again. There was music in her ears, he knew that. But he wondered what kind. What kind of rhythm made her shoulders sway like that, so subtly it was almost imperceptible?

He imagined it was something dark. Something slow and pulsing, something that stirred deeper than the surface. Not pop. Not something everyone else liked. Tessa didn’t look like someone who listened to anything predictable.

Today, he didn’t bring a bookmark. He wasn’t sure why.

Maybe it was because she looked different. Not in any dramatic way—she wore her same loose black hoodie, same worn sneakers with blue laces. But something in her face looked heavier. Like whatever story she was reading was bleeding into her, leaving marks behind.

Williams leaned back, letting the shadows cover more of his face.

He didn’t always think of himself as a watcher. At least, not in the beginning. But lately, he’d grown used to the stillness of observation. To being near her but never with her. It made him feel both safe and on the verge of madness.

It wasn’t obsession, not really.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

She closed the book.

Her fingers lingered on the final page. Not moving. As if saying goodbye to something she didn’t want to let go of.

Then slowly, she stood. Adjusted her hoodie. Slipped the book into her bag.

Williams watched her walk past the table, headphones still in, gaze forward. She didn’t look at him.

But as she passed, she reached into her bag. Pulled out a small rectangle of paper—one of the bookmarks he’d left weeks ago. He saw her fingers trace the edge of it. A pause. Then she slipped it between the pages of the book she’d just taken.

His chest tightened.

She remembered.

Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe it was a coincidence. But something about the way she handled it—carefully, as if it mattered—made him feel... seen. Even if she didn’t know he was there.

He stood after she left. Walked over to where she’d been sitting. Her scent lingered—a faint blend of old paper and something floral, barely noticeable, like a memory just out of reach.

On the chair, something white.

A folded piece of paper.

He stared at it. Looked around. No one noticed.

He picked it up.

It wasn’t addressed to anyone. No name. Just a single sentence scrawled in small, sharp handwriting:

“Sometimes I feel like I’m not alone, even when I am.”

His breath caught.

It couldn’t be for him. Could it?

Or had she left it for herself—some private thought meant to disappear into the air?

Either way, the words curled around his mind like smoke.

He folded the paper again and slipped it into his pocket.

That night, in the dim light of his room, he lay awake staring at the ceiling, her voice whispering through his imagination, even though he had never heard it.

And for the first time since this began, he wondered—

Did she feel him too?

...🖤...

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