Puck, Pain & Promises

Chapter 12: Carrel

Eden...

“Jax, what are you doing in my carrel?”

I stood in the doorway of the third floor library corner I had claimed since my first year.

Jax sat in my usual chair, his broad shoulders taking up space that felt entirely his now. He looked up from the textbook in front of him like he belonged there.

“I needed the outlet,” he said.

I looked at the outlet three feet away from the carrel. “There is an outlet right there.”

“The wifi is better here.”

“The wifi is worse here. That is why I chose it.”

He leaned back in the chair. “I like worse wifi.”

I stared at him for a long moment. Something in his posture told me he had been here for a while. He had my regular chair.

He knew which one was mine. I pulled up the extra chair and sat down without asking him to move. I did not know why I did not ask. I simply sat.

We studied in parallel. This was different from our usual tutoring sessions.

This was two people working side by side without the pressure of teaching or learning. I noticed things about him I had not seen before.

He read with his whole body, slightly hunched forward, completely absorbed in the pages. He wrote notes in the margins in lowercase letters that should not have been as readable as they were. He had his own system. Three colors. Two symbols. It was less sophisticated than mine but completely consistent inside itself.

“You developed your own annotation method,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“Who taught you?”

“No one. It just made sense to me.”

I thought about that. Someone who built a system alone because no one offered him one. I understood that more than I wanted to admit. “I could improve it,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “Show me.”

We worked like that for a long time. The library stayed quiet around us. The only sounds were pages turning and pens moving across paper.

I showed him how I connected ideas across pages with arrows and small notes. He listened carefully. He asked questions when something was not clear. He adjusted his notes right away. I watched him do it and felt something warm settle in my chest. He was not pretending to care. He was actually listening.

Midway through he closed his book and looked at me. “Tell me about your research. The real one. Not the summary you send with the practice problems.”

I was so surprised I answered without thinking. I explained the full project. The questions I was trying to answer.

The way the data connected to bigger ideas in biology. I did not abbreviate it. I did not give the short version I used at parties or with professors who only wanted the highlights. I told him the real thing. He listened. He asked two follow up questions that were good. Sharp.

They showed he had actually followed what I said and wanted to understand more.

“You actually read the summary I sent with the practice problems,” I said.

“Of course I did.”

“I did not send it for you to read. I sent it as context.”

“Same thing.”

I looked at him. “Riley never…”

I stopped. I did not finish the sentence. He waited. He did not push me to continue. He simply waited. I did not finish it. He did not make me.

We kept working. The silence between us felt different now. Not empty. Full. Comfortable in a way I had not expected. I realized halfway down the stairs later that we had been walking at the same pace for so long I did not know which of us had adjusted first.

At the bottom of the stairs he stopped.

“Same time Wednesday?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I will be here tomorrow.”

I looked at him. “Why?”

“The wifi,” he said.

I stared at him. He stared back. I said, “The wifi is terrible.”

“I know,” he said. “I will be here at two.”

I shook my head. I walked away. I was absolutely going to be in my carrel at two.

The walk back to my dorm felt longer than usual. My bag felt heavier on my shoulder. Every step reminded me of how much space Jax had taken up in my carrel. How comfortable he had looked there. How natural it had felt to sit across from him and work without performing.

I had spent years learning how to be small in every room I entered. Small enough not to bother anyone. Small enough to be useful. Small enough to be loved.

Sitting with Jax in that carrel had felt like the opposite of small. It had felt like taking up space without apology.

I reached my dorm and closed the door behind me. Mia was not there. The room was quiet.

I sat on my bed and opened my notebook. I turned to the page where I kept the things I did not want to forget.

I wrote down everything that had happened in the carrel. The way he had leaned over the book. The way his handwriting looked next to mine. The way he had asked about my research like it was important. The way he had said “same thing” like it was obvious.

I read what I wrote. Then I wrote one more line at the bottom.

“I am starting to like the way he sees me.”

I closed the notebook quickly. I did not want to look at that line for too long. It felt dangerous. It felt true.

Later that night I lay in bed and thought about Riley. I thought about the way he used to nod when I showed him my work. The way he would change the subject. The way he made me feel like my effort was cute but not necessary.

I thought about how Jax had listened. How he had asked questions. How he had made me explain the real version of my research without making me feel small for caring so much.

I thought about how long I had been comparing them. I thought I would have to stop comparing them eventually. I was not ready to stop yet. Knowing they were different was the only way I knew what I wanted.

The room was dark. I turned off the light and stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow at two o’clock I would go back to the library. I would sit in my carrel. Jax would be there.

We would study in parallel again. I would notice more things about him. He would notice more things about me.

The transaction was supposed to be simple. It was not simple anymore.

And the worst part was that I did not want it to be simple.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.

The image of Jax in my carrel stayed with me.

The way he had looked up when I walked in. The way he had not moved. The way he had made space for me without being asked. The way he had listened like my words mattered.

I fell asleep thinking about that space. And about how much I wanted to keep sitting in it.