I HATE LOVE STORY

Naomie didn’t return home that night. The streetlights had long flickered on, and the sky wore a navy-blue veil littered with tired stars. Her mother’s worried calls went unanswered. Her phone remained off. And she didn’t care. She stayed in the library. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t comfortable. But it was safe. Safe from expectations. Safe from pitying glances. Safe from the nightmare replaying in her head like a broken record. Jason. Daniella. Lips. Lies. She curled up on the cold floor, using her hoodie as a pillow, and tried to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. Not when her mind kept spinning in circles, chasing what-ifs and maybes. She didn’t cry. She’d done enough of that. She just lay there in silence. In stillness. And somewhere close by, the boy from earlier - the one with cautious eyes and a writer’s hands - scribbled into a notebook. She didn’t know his name. Didn’t want to. Not yet. But she wasn’t annoyed by his presence. If anything, it felt… grounding. A sound interrupted the quiet. A low growl. Naomie’s stomach. The boy looked up from his notebook, smirking slightly. He reached into his backpack and tossed something toward her. A granola bar. She caught it but didn’t say thank you. Just tore the wrapper and took a bite like she hadn’t eaten in years. They didn’t speak. They just existed. Together, in the silence of a forgotten library. Eventually, she drifted into a shallow sleep. And when she woke up, morning had come, golden light slicing through the broken windows. The boy was gone. So was the notebook. All that remained was a sticky note left on a pile of books beside her: “Even broken hearts keep beating. Come back tomorrow if you want.” No name. Just a message. She read it twice, folded it gently, and slipped it into her pocket. Then, slowly, she stood. Her body ached. Her eyes were heavy. But she was standing - and that felt like something. She went home. Took a long shower. Ignored her mother’s questions. Locked her door. Slept. Ate. Slept again. The next day, she returned to the library. And he was there. Same corner. Same notebook. He glanced up, nodded once, and returned to writing. This time, she sat closer. Not too close. Just close enough. Days passed. It became a rhythm. Morning walks to the library. Silence. Sometimes music in her ears. Sometimes a book. Always him. Writing. Occasionally offering snacks or dropping random one-liners that made her laugh against her will. She still didn’t know his name. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t pry. Didn’t flinch when she spaced out or suddenly stood up and walked away. He just existed alongside her. And that felt… safe. Until one afternoon, two weeks later, when she finally spoke. “You don’t talk much,” she said. He raised a brow. “Says the girl who hasn’t spoken in thirteen days.” She smirked, eyes softening. “Fair.” He closed his notebook gently. “Name’s Ezra.” She didn’t respond immediately. Then: “Naomie.” Ezra nodded. “Nice to finally meet you.” They didn’t need to shake hands. They’d already shared something deeper - silence, sadness, space. A quiet understanding. Ezra glanced at her. “So… what broke you?” The question should’ve hurt. But it didn’t. Because he asked it without judgment. Without curiosity. Just… acknowledgment. Naomie inhaled slowly. “A boy.” Ezra gave a slow, knowing nod. “Same.” Her eyes widened slightly. He chuckled. “A girl, I mean. But yeah - heartbreak.” Naomie looked down at her hands. “Funny. How the things that make you feel alive end up killing you.” “Love’s a weapon, sometimes.” “Yeah,” she whispered. “And I hate it.” Ezra leaned back against the shelf. “Maybe. But you’re here. Breathing. Fighting. That counts.” She didn’t know why, but her chest ached at those words. Three days later, Ezra brought two cups of hot chocolate. “This place needs warmth,” he said, handing her one. Naomie accepted it silently. They sipped side by side, listening to the gentle creaks of the library as if the building itself was remembering stories of old love and lost battles. She turned to him. “What happened with her?” He paused. His fingers tightened around the paper cup. “She said I wasn’t enough,” he whispered. “Said I was too intense. Too emotional. She wanted someone simpler. Someone who didn’t feel everything so… deeply.” Naomie’s breath caught. “I get that. Jason said I was ‘too much drama.’ Like feeling things was a crime.” Ezra gave a sad smile. “We feel because we care. That’s not weakness. That’s power.” Naomie looked away, but her throat felt tight. The tears didn’t fall, but they danced in her eyes like rain clouds unsure of their purpose. Ezra gently touched her hand. Just once. Briefly. But she didn’t flinch. She leaned back, exhaled. “I don’t want to fall for anyone again.” “You don’t have to,” he replied. “Sometimes it’s enough to just stand again.” The library became their world. Their sanctuary. It wasn’t just about healing anymore. It was about rediscovering pieces of themselves they thought were lost. Naomie started writing again. Poetry. Short lines filled with ache and light. Ezra read them. Never judged. Always encouraged. One afternoon, she handed him a folded note. He opened it. I still hate love stories. But I don’t hate this one. He didn’t say anything. But the smile he gave her? It said everything. But peace is fragile. One rainy evening, as thunder roared in the distance, Naomie entered the library to find Ezra missing. His usual corner empty. No notebook. No sticky note. She waited. An hour passed. Then two. Panic stirred in her chest. She called the number he’d scribbled in her journal days ago - just in case. No answer. She walked home, soaked to the bone. Sleep evaded her. She stared at the ceiling, heart racing with questions. The next morning, she returned to the library. Still no Ezra. On the third day, he showed up. Bruised. His right eye swollen, lip cut. Naomie rushed toward him. “What happened?” Ezra winced. “Long story.” “Tell me.” He sat down slowly, back against the shelf. “My dad. He’s… not a fan of my writing. Thinks I’m wasting my life. He got drunk. Things escalated.” Naomie’s fists clenched. “Did you call the police?” He shook his head. “What’s the point? He’s all I’ve got.” Naomie sat beside him. “That’s not true.” He looked at her. She held his gaze. “You’ve got me.” Silence fell between them - but this time, it was filled with something tender. Something fierce. Ezra swallowed hard. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.” “And yet I did. And I’m still here.” That night, he stayed at her house. Her mom raised a brow but didn’t ask. Naomie set up the guest room and brought him soup. When he fell asleep, she sat beside him, watching his chest rise and fall. She whispered to the darkness: “I think I’m falling.” The silence didn’t answer. But her heart did. The next week unfolded like a movie reel. Long walks. Shared glances. Quiet laughter. They weren’t officially anything. No labels. No confessions. But everything about them screamed connection. Then, on a quiet Thursday, Ezra kissed her. It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t explosive. It was soft. Honest. Fragile. Like two broken souls daring to love again. When they pulled away, neither spoke. They just held each other, heartbeats in sync, breaths tangled. And somewhere in the back of her mind, Naomie heard the echo of her own words: “I hate love stories.” And yet, here she was - living one. One that wasn’t perfect. One that didn’t promise forever. But one that was real. And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.