A Thousand Memories

Seven

After Wednesday, the library came back slowly.

Not the way it used to be, with our table and our routines and Leah arriving like she had always been there. It came back in pieces. Different corners. Different shelves. Different times. Leah kept changing where she sat, and I understood why. She wanted control. She wanted options. She wanted to know she could leave without it turning into a scene.

So I followed her lead.

Some days she texted a time. Other days she did not. Sometimes I walked in and saw her immediately. Sometimes I did not see her at all and I left without waiting too long. I learned not to take it personally. I learned that consistency with Leah was not about showing up on schedule. It was about not making her pay for the days she could not show up.

We did not talk much about her father. That stayed locked. She did not bring it up and I did not pull at it. The most she said was small and flat, like she was reporting the weather.

“He called again.”

“I ignored it.”

“He left a message.”

That was it. And I nodded and said, “Okay,” like I understood. Because I did.

What we did talk about was everything else.

The simple stuff. The normal stuff.

One day she came in holding a plastic bag and sat across from me. She placed the bag on the table and pushed it toward me.

“What’s that,” I asked.

“Snacks,” she replied.

I smiled. “I thought I was buying snacks.”

“You were,” she said. “But you were going to buy something embarrassing.”

“So you saved me.”

“I saved myself,” she replied. “If you buy something embarrassing, I will still end up eating it.”

I laughed. “So what did you buy.”

She opened the bag and pulled out two small packets of biscuits and a juice. All simple.

“That’s not fun,” I said.

“That’s the point,” she replied.

I tore open a packet and offered her one. She took it without hesitation.

We ate quietly. Then she said, “Your shirt is inside out.”

I looked down. She was right.

I groaned. “No.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Yes.”

“I left the house like this,” I said.

“You did,” she replied.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier.”

“I just noticed,” she said, then added, “and it’s funny.”

I tried to fix it, but I could not do it properly without taking the shirt off.

Leah watched me struggle for a second and said, “Stop. You’re going to make a scene.”

“I am not trying to,” I said.

“You are,” she replied.

I sighed and sat back down. “Fine. I will stay embarrassing.”

Leah’s mouth twitched. “Good.”

That was her humour. Dry. Simple. Honest.

Another day she showed up with her hair down and no cardigan. I noticed immediately.

“What,” she said when she saw me looking.

“Nothing,” I replied.

“You’re looking.”

“I’m allowed,” I said.

She stared at me. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting,” I said, smiling.

She sat down and opened her book. But she kept touching her hair like she was not used to it.

I leaned forward slightly. “It looks nice.”

She froze for a second. Then she said, “Okay.”

That was all. No thank you. No smile. But she did not put her hair back up either.

We started doing small things outside the library again too, but only when Leah suggested it.

Sometimes it was groceries. Sometimes it was walking to a nearby café to buy coffee and coming back. Sometimes it was sitting on the steps outside the library for ten minutes before going in.

One Saturday she asked me to come with her to buy a phone charger.

“A charger,” I repeated.

“Yes,” she replied.

“That is very random.”

“It stopped working,” she said.

“I can buy one for you,” I offered.

“No,” she replied quickly.

“Okay,” I said. “We will buy it together.”

She nodded like that was the only acceptable answer.

We walked to the shop and stood in front of chargers that all looked the same. Leah read the back of the packaging carefully.

“You’re treating this like a contract,” I said.

“It is,” she replied. “I don’t want to buy the wrong one.”

“Fair,” I said.

She picked one and then held it up. “Is this right.”

I looked at it. “Yes.”

“Are you sure,” she asked.

“Yes,” I said again.

She stared at me. “You sound confident for someone who wears shirts inside out.”

I laughed. “That was one time.”

“It was last week,” she replied.

“That still counts as one time,” I said.

She shook her head. Then she paid for the charger and walked out like the mission was complete.

When we got back outside, she stopped near the curb.

“I’m trying,” she said suddenly.

I blinked. “Trying what.”

She looked away. “Trying to be normal.”

I kept my voice calm. “You don’t have to be normal.”

“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“Why,” I asked, then immediately regretted it.

Leah’s face tightened slightly, but she did not shut down.

“Because I’m tired,” she replied. “I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of feeling like I’m always reacting.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

She glanced at me. “You always say okay.”

“Because I don’t want to push,” I said.

She nodded. “Good.”

We walked back in silence.

There was a moment a few days later that stayed with me.

We were at the library, sitting close but not too close. Leah was reading and I was pretending to read while actually watching her. She turned a page, then paused and looked at a line again like she was deciding whether she believed it.

“What,” I asked.

She pointed at the sentence with her finger. “This is stupid.”

“What does it say,” I asked.

She slid the book toward me.

I read the line and laughed. It was the kind of overly dramatic romantic sentence that sounded nice but meant nothing in real life.

I looked up. “That is very dramatic.”

Leah nodded. “People write nonsense and call it love.”

I leaned back. “So what counts as love then.”

Leah stared at the book for a moment. “I don’t know.”

I kept my voice light. “Not even a little idea.”

She thought about it, then said, “Maybe it is small things.”

“Like what,” I asked.

She looked at me. “Like not making me talk when I can’t.”

My chest tightened. I nodded. “Okay.”

“Like bringing water when I forget,” she added.

“You forget water a lot,” I said.

“I do,” she replied.

“Okay,” I said. “I will bring water.”

She glanced at me. “Don’t.”

“Why not.”

“Because then it becomes a thing,” she said.

I smiled slightly. “Leah, everything with you becomes a thing.”

She stared at me. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” she repeated.

I laughed quietly. “Okay.”

She returned to her book and I returned to mine. But I kept thinking about what she said. Small things.

I started noticing them more.

Leah never took the last biscuit in the packet without asking me first. Even though she could have. She always left it there and waited, like she was giving me a choice. She always made sure I had a chair, even if she moved seats. She started sending me messages like “Did you eat” and “Are you at home” without explaining why.

It was not romantic in a loud way, but it was care.

Then, one Thursday, she did something that made me pause.

We were at our table again for the first time in a long while. Leah had chosen it. She sat down and placed her book and her coffee in the usual spots, like she was claiming the routine back.

I sat across from her and tried not to look too happy.

She opened her book and read for a few minutes. Then she closed it and looked at me.

“I want to ask you something,” she said.

My stomach tightened. “Okay.”

She hesitated. “If I tell you something, will you stop looking at me differently.”

I held my breath. “I don’t know how I look at you.”

“You do,” she replied. “You look like you’re waiting.”

I swallowed. “Waiting for what.”

She shook her head, like she did not want to say it out loud.

“Just answer,” she said. “If I tell you something, will you change.”

I kept my voice steady. “No.”

She studied my face. “You say that now.”

“I am saying it because it is true,” I replied.

Leah nodded slowly. Then she looked down at her hands.

“My father did not just make me uncomfortable,” she said.

I stayed still. I did not react too fast. I did not interrupt.

She took a breath. “He crossed lines. When I was younger.”

My chest went tight. I felt anger rise, but I kept it under control. Leah was watching me closely.

“I’m sorry,” I said, quietly.

Leah nodded once, like she expected that word but did not know what to do with it.

“That’s why I get like this,” she added. “That’s why I don’t like people too close. That’s why I don’t like being trapped.”

I nodded. “I understand.”

She looked at me. “Do you.”

“Yes,” I said. “And you don’t have to explain more than you want to.”

Leah’s eyes were wet. She blinked and looked away.

“I didn’t tell you for sympathy,” she said.

“I know,” I replied.

“I told you because I don’t want you to guess,” she continued. “And I don’t want you to think it is about you.”

My throat tightened. “Okay.”

She exhaled. “Say something.”

I chose my words carefully. “I’m glad you told me. I’m glad you didn’t carry it alone.”

Leah nodded, but her face tightened like she was trying not to cry.

I stayed calm. “Do you want me to leave.”

“No,” she said quickly.

“Do you want to talk more.”

“No,” she replied again.

“Okay,” I said. “We can just sit.”

We sat in silence. Leah opened her book again, but I could tell she was not reading. She kept her eyes on the page, but her breathing was uneven.

After a while, she said, without looking up, “Don’t treat me like I’m broken.”

“I won’t,” I replied. “I’m just here.”

She nodded once, then turned a page.

That day I walked home with my jaw tight and my fists clenched in my pockets. Not because of Leah. Because of him. Because I wanted to do something about it and could not.

And because I knew, now, that Leah’s boundaries were not just preferences. They were protection.

The next time she asked me for something small, I did it without question.

Water. Snacks. Sitting nearby. Walking her home.

And I did not make it a big thing.

But even as we returned to small things, I felt something shift.

Leah had trusted me with the truth.

And that kind of trust changes the relationship, even if you try to keep everything the same.

I could feel the weight of it in every quiet moment after that. In every text. In every glance. In the way she watched me, waiting to see if I would become another person who promised safety and then failed.

I told myself I would not fail her.

I did not know yet that sometimes you can do everything right and still lose someone.