Eleven
1253 Words
The notes started by accident.
I walked into the library on Monday and didn’t see Leah at our table. I paused, looked around, then noticed a book sitting on the chair where I usually sat. It was placed neatly, not abandoned.
It was a romance novel. The cover was dramatic and embarrassing.
I picked it up and opened it. A small piece of paper fell out and landed on the table.
Don’t laugh. Read it.
I looked around again, and this time I saw her. Leah was at a table two rows away, facing me, pretending she wasn’t watching. She had her glasses on and her book open, but her eyes lifted for half a second to check if I’d found the note.
I sat down and wrote on the paper.
This cover is violent. Why do you have this.
I folded it and slipped it back into the book, then carried the book to her table like it belonged there. I didn’t sit. I just placed it next to her and walked back to my seat.
A minute later I watched her open it, read, and fight a smile.
She grabbed her pen, wrote something quickly, then stood up and walked past my table like she was going somewhere else. She didn’t look at me, just dropped the book onto my table and kept walking.
I opened it.
It’s not mine. I borrowed it. Also your face is loud.
I covered my mouth to stop myself from laughing.
The librarian looked at me. I nodded like I was sorry.
I wrote back.
My face is normal. You are the one reading this book in public.
I placed the note back inside and pushed the book slightly toward the edge of my table, a clear invitation.
When Leah came back, she picked it up without looking at me and went back to her seat.
And that was it.
Notes in books. Notes on receipts. Notes on the back of library flyers. Sometimes she wrote like she was annoyed, but she still wrote. That was the point.
The next day she left me a book that wasn’t embarrassing.
It was Dante’s Inferno.
Inside was a note.
You look like someone who would enjoy suffering.
I stared at it, then wrote back.
You’re mean. Also you’re right.
I slid it back and waited.
A few minutes later she sent another note, this time on a small torn piece of paper.
Stop agreeing so fast.
I wrote.
Okay. I disagree. I do not enjoy suffering.
Leah’s reply came quickly.
Liar.
I smiled and wrote.
Come here and say it.
I expected her to ignore that. Leah didn’t do obvious flirting.
But ten minutes later, she stood up, walked to my table, leaned down like she was checking a book title, and whispered, “Liar.”
Then she walked away like nothing happened.
I stared at my page and forgot how to read.
By the end of that week, the notes were constant.
She would leave a book with a note already inside it. I would reply. Then she would reply again later. Sometimes it was silly.
Your shirt is inside out again.
It’s fashion.
It’s embarrassment.
Sometimes it was petty.
You took my seat.
You moved. It was empty.
You knew it was mine.
Sometimes it was sweet in a way she never said out loud.
Did you eat today.
Yes. Did you.
Yes. Don’t ask extra questions.
One afternoon, I got a note that made me sit up straight.
Leah slid a book across the table without looking at me.
I opened it and found the note.
You can sit closer today.
I read it twice, then glanced up. Leah was staring at her page like it was the most interesting thing in the world. She didn’t look at me.
I moved my chair a little closer. Not enough to crowd her. Just enough that the space felt different.
Leah turned a page and said quietly, “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not,” I whispered.
“You’re thinking loudly,” she replied.
I smiled. “Okay.”
She didn’t move away. That was the real permission.
Later that day, Leah handed me a folded note while we were leaving.
“Read it at home,” she said.
“Why,” I asked.
“Because,” she replied. “Just do it.”
I didn’t push. I nodded. “Okay.”
At home I opened it carefully.
I like this. The notes. You. Don’t get excited.
I stared at it for a long time. It was simple. It was direct. It was Leah doing something brave and pretending it wasn’t.
I texted her.
I’m not excited. I’m calm.
She replied.
Liar.
I smiled and typed.
Okay. I’m excited. But I’ll be quiet about it.
She replied.
Good.
The next day at the library, I found another book on my seat. A normal one. Not romance, not tragedy. Something light.
Inside was a note.
Pick something that doesn’t ruin your mood.
I wrote back.
Are you worried about my mood.
She wrote back.
No. I’m tired of your face when you’re sad.
I wrote.
That is caring.
Her reply came quickly.
Don’t.
I wrote.
Okay. Not caring. Just you being nice.
She replied.
Also don’t.
I laughed quietly, then looked up and caught her watching me. She looked away immediately, but her mouth was fighting a smile.
That weekend, Leah did something that made the notes feel bigger.
She didn’t hide it in a book. She gave it to me directly.
We were leaving the library together, walking slowly toward the exit. She stopped near a notice board and pretended to read something.
Then she handed me a small folded paper without looking at me.
“Later,” she said.
I nodded. “Okay.”
At home, I unfolded it.
Come over tomorrow. 6. Bring normal snacks. If you bring something childish I will still eat it but I will complain.
I stared at it and laughed out loud.
It wasn’t romantic on paper, but it was Leah inviting me into her space again. It was also Leah admitting she would eat my snacks even if she pretended she wouldn’t.
I wrote on the back.
Deal. Also I’m keeping this note.
The next time I saw her, I gave it back.
She read it and frowned. “Why.”
“Because you should know I keep things,” I said.
Leah stared at the paper, then at me. “That’s weird.”
“It is,” I admitted. “But it’s also true.”
She hesitated, then took the paper and folded it neatly, slower than necessary.
“Fine,” she said. “Keep it.”
I smiled. “Okay.”
Leah’s face tightened. “Do not get excited.”
“I won’t,” I said.
She raised her eyebrows.
“I will be excited quietly,” I corrected.
Leah nodded. “Better.”
Before we left, she walked closer, stood in front of me like she had something important to do, then kissed me quickly.
It wasn’t long. It wasn’t dramatic.
But it was in the library, and she didn’t look around afterward like she was scared someone saw.
Then she whispered, “Stop smiling.”
I whispered back, “No.”
She rolled her eyes and walked away first.
I stood there for a second, then followed, holding my book in one hand and the feeling of that kiss in the other.
- Writer
