MEIN: ANTRAPADA

The university library closed at ten. Rui knew that. He had been here since eight — not because he was looking for a book to read or study, but because the library was the only place on campus that didn't force you to pretend to be a pleasant person. People came, took what they needed, left. No small talk. No smiles that had to be returned. Rui sat in the farthest corner, his back against the wall, his sightline open to the entire room. An old habit. Always facing the entrance — always knowing who was coming before they had a chance to see him. The night was quiet. A few students sat with their heads down, earphones in, lost in their own worlds. Rui didn't pay attention to them. For half an hour now he had been reading the same page without actually reading it, and he was honest enough with himself to admit: he hadn't come here for the book. He didn't know why he had come. Until the door opened. ✦ He didn't see her right away. What he heard first was footsteps — light, but purposeful. Not the steps of someone lost or hurrying. The steps of someone who already knew where they were going before their feet began to move. Rui looked up reflexively. Not out of interest. And his eyes stopped at a single point. The girl stood at the entrance of the middle aisle, tracing the spines of books with the tips of her fingers. Slowly. Carefully — as though she were someone accustomed to treating things gently, because no one had ever done the same for her. Rui didn't know where that conclusion came from. He only knew it was true. Her movements were steady. Unhurried. Occasionally she tucked her dark hair behind one ear — unbothered. Her blue shirt was wrinkled at the sleeves — not from carelessness, but from a day that had likely been too long and exhausting. There was a pen caught between the fingers of her right hand. She bit the end absently whenever her eyes stopped on a title, considering. Then smiled faintly when she found what she was looking for. The smile wasn't directed at anyone. Just for herself — or perhaps for the book. But something inside Rui's chest felt tight for reasons he couldn't understand, and he disliked things he couldn't understand. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 9:23 PM. He looked back at her. ✦ For the first twenty minutes, he only watched. Not because he was interested — or so he told himself. But there was something in the way she moved that was difficult to ignore. She moved like someone who never wasted time — choosing, reading, returning a book, picking up another. Not a single motion was superfluous. Efficient, Rui thought. But not because she was in a rush. Unlike the other people he usually observed. Different. In his third year of university, Rui could categorize almost anyone within the first thirty seconds. The type who was loud because they were afraid of not being seen. The type who was silent because they didn't know what to say. The type who watched their surroundings while pretending not to. This girl didn't fit any category. Or perhaps — she fit all of them at once, in proportions that were entirely unusual. Rui realized he had been tapping the end of his pen against the table in a specific pattern, and he stopped. A habit that surfaced when his mind was processing something more deeply than he was aware of. He didn't like this. ✦ At minute twenty-seven, another student knocked over a stack of books in the aisle beside her — by accident. The books fell with a soft crash in the quiet of the library. The girl turned, instinctively stepped back one pace, and then — this was the moment that made Rui go completely still — she bent down to help pick them up. Without being asked, while still holding her own book. And she smiled at the student in a way that looked entirely unforced. Genuine. The student left looking relieved. The girl returned to her shelf. Found the page she had been reading. Continued, as though nothing had happened. Rui stared at his own hands on the table. He couldn't remember the last time he had done something without calculating what he would get in return. ✦ 9:55 PM. Five minutes before closing. The girl gathered her things — hugging the book she had chosen, straightening the shelf she had browsed through even though no one had asked, pulling a cardigan from the back of a chair that she had apparently draped there earlier without Rui noticing. She turned toward the exit. Rui didn't move. But — she stopped suddenly. One step before the end of the aisle. She turned back, her gaze sweeping the room in a way that was too quick to be called searching, too slow to be a simple reflex. Maybe the habit of someone who always made sure nothing was left behind. Their eyes met. One second. Two. She smiled — the polite, meaningless smile of a stranger to a stranger — then turned and left, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Rui didn't return the smile. He didn't even know why he only sat there, still, with the book he hadn't finished and a mind that had gone very, very quiet. The library closed at exactly ten. Rui was the last to leave. The librarian had walked past his table twice with an increasingly impatient look — urging him to go without saying a word — and he finally stood, packed his book into his bag, and walked out into the cold night air of campus. His steps paused in front of the announcement board near the door. There, among flyers for seminars and part-time job listings, was a small photograph of the semester's top-performing students. He had walked past this board thousands of times. He had never once been interested enough to stop. But tonight, he did. He looked closely. And in the photograph on the far right, second row from the bottom, was her. Antonella Beatriz Sienne. Rui read the name once. Business Management, fourth semester. GPA 3.96. Twice. Three times. He let it settle somewhere very private inside him. He didn't believe in coincidences. Not ever. But that night, as he stepped out of the library into the cold air with that name stored neatly in his mind, he considered something for the first time: perhaps some things were simply meant to happen. Perhaps some things — you simply decided would happen, and then made sure they did. He put his hands in his jacket pockets. Walked slowly. And for the first time in his life, he knew exactly where he was going. He thought this was his choice. Of course. Everyone always thought that.