The Gap Between Us

CHAPTER 2: PROXIMITY

The library closes at 8:30 on Thursdays, but most people leave by 7:45 when the aircon starts feeling more like a freezer than a comfort. I stay later. Always have.

The quiet after everyone leaves is the best kind—thick, undisturbed, perfect for thinking without interruptions.

Tonight, though, the quiet feels different.

I’m at my usual table near the reference section, third shelf from the back, window on my left so I can see the acacia trees outside bend in the wind.

Differential equations textbook open, notebook beside it, pen moving in slow, deliberate strokes. My handwriting is lighter now. I know that. I’ve felt the change since summer—less force, less tension in my fingers. I didn’t realize how noticeable it was until this afternoon.

Until Reagan said it.

“Your handwriting changed. Less pressure on the pen. You press lighter now. Calmer.”

The words replay in my head like a stuck loop. Not mocking. Not teasing. Just observation. Flat. Factual. Like he was stating the weather.

I don’t know why it unsettled me so much. Maybe because no one else has ever commented on it. Not Andra. Not my parents. Not even me, really—I just noticed one day that writing felt easier, less like fighting the page. And he saw it.

I flip the page harder than necessary. The sound echoes in the empty aisle.

Footsteps.

Soft. Measured. Not rushed.

I don’t look up right away. I keep my eyes on the equation, pretending to solve it. But my peripheral vision catches him: black uniform blazer still on, tie perfect, bag over one shoulder like always. He stops at the end of my aisle, scans the shelves for a second, then pulls a thick volume—Advanced Vector Calculus, the one Mr. Santos recommended last week.

He doesn’t leave.

Instead, he walks down the aisle. Stops at the table next to mine—two seats away, close enough that I can smell the faint clean scent of his laundry detergent, far enough that it’s not crowding.

He sets the book down. Pulls out the chair. Sits.

I feel the air shift.

I still don’t look at him. I keep writing. The pen scratches louder than it should.

Minutes pass. Five, maybe seven. Neither of us speaks. He opens his book. Starts reading. The pages turn with quiet precision.

Finally, I can’t pretend anymore.

I lift my eyes. “You’re not in your usual spot.”

He doesn’t look up right away. When he does, his expression is neutral. “The back table has a flickering light. It’s distracting.”

I glance toward the far corner where he usually sits. Sure enough, one bulb is pulsing faintly.

“Fair.”

Silence again.

I go back to my equations. But now every scratch of my pen feels amplified. Every shift of his chair registers. I hate how aware I am of him.

After another stretch of quiet, he speaks. Low. Almost casual.

“You solved the last one wrong.”

My pen stops.

I look at my notebook. The chain rule application on the bottom of the page. I double-check. Damn it. I forgot to multiply by the derivative of the inner function.

I exhale through my nose. Short.

Controlled. “Thanks.”

He nods once. Goes back to his book.

I fix the mistake. Slowly. Deliberately. When I’m done, I slide the notebook an inch toward him—barely noticeable.

He glances over. Scans the correction. Nods again. “Better.”

That’s it. No lecture. No explanation unless asked. Just acknowledgment.

I should feel annoyed. He didn’t have to point it out. He could have ignored it. But he didn’t.

Instead, I feel… seen.

I hate that more.

We work in parallel for the next hour. No talking. Just the soft turn of pages, the occasional scratch of pens, the hum of the dying aircon. It’s not uncomfortable. It’s not comfortable either. It’s something in between—charged, careful, like walking on a thin sheet of ice and knowing it might crack any second.

At 8:15, the librarian makes the closing announcement over the intercom. Five minutes.

I start packing.

Reagan does the same. Same mechanical efficiency. Books aligned. Pen capped. Bag zipped.

We stand at the same time.

Our paths meet at the end of the aisle.

He pauses. Lets me go first.

I walk ahead. He follows a step behind. Not close enough to feel invasive. Close enough to feel present.

Outside the library doors, the hallway is dim—only emergency lights and the glow from the courtyard lamps. The wind has picked up; leaves skitter across the tiles.

I head toward the main stairs. He does too.

Halfway down the first flight, he speaks again. “Hiro asked about you.”

My step falters. Just a fraction.

I keep walking. “What did he say?”

“He wanted to know if you’re seeing anyone.”

I almost laugh. It comes out as a short exhale instead. “And what did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t know.”

We reach the landing. I stop. Turn to face him.

He stops too. Hands in his pockets. Expression unreadable in the low light.

“Why didn’t you just say no?”

“Because I don’t know.”

The words hang there. Simple. Direct.

I feel heat crawl up my neck. Not embarrassment exactly. Something sharper.

“I’m not,” I say. Quiet. Firm.

He nods once. “Noted.”

We start walking again. Down the next flight. The silence feels heavier now.

At the bottom, near the exit doors, he speaks one more time.

“You’re closing the gap faster than last semester.”

I stop. Look at him.

He meets my eyes. Steady. No mockery.

“Your proofs are cleaner. Your timing on the last exam was three minutes faster than average. You’re not rushing anymore. You’re… deliberate.”

I don’t know what to say. So I don’t say anything.

He continues. “That’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“For second place.”

A beat.

Then the corner of his mouth lifts—just barely. The smallest almost-smile I’ve ever seen from him.

“Good night, Verano.”

He pushes through the doors. The night air rushes in, cool and sharp.

I stand there for a second longer.

The doors swing shut behind him.

I exhale. Push them open. Step out.

The courtyard is empty. Streetlights cast long shadows. I start walking toward the gate.

My phone buzzes.

Andra:

Where r u? Waiting at the tricycle stop. Hiro just asked if we’re free this weekend lol

I type back quickly.

Coming. Tell him maybe.

I pocket the phone.

The wind picks up again. My hair whips across my face.

I think about Hiro’s smile. Safe. Easy.

Familiar.

Then I think about Reagan’s almost-smile. Rare. Real. Dangerous.

The gap between third and first feels smaller tonight.

But the gap between me and him?

That one feels like it just got a little narrower.

And a little more terrifying.

I reach the gate. Andra waves from the tricycle line.

I wave back. Force a small smile.

But inside, my mind is still on the library aisle.

On the quiet table two seats away.

On the boy who noticed my handwriting before anyone else noticed me at all.

And on the way he said “noted” like it was a promise.

Or a warning.

I climb into the tricycle.

The engine sputters to life.

We pull away from the school.

But the feeling doesn’t leave with the campus lights.

It stays.

Quiet.

Persistent.

Closing in.