Six
2050 Words
I did not go to the library.
Not the next day. Not the day after. Not even when my body moved in that direction without thinking. I would get halfway there, see the building, and turn around.
Leah’s message was clear.
Do not come to the library for a while.
I told myself it was simple. Respect her boundary. Give her time. Let her breathe. I understood that part. What I did not understand was what to do with myself in the hours I usually spent with her.
I tried to study. I tried to work. I tried to do normal things. Everything felt loud, even my own thoughts. I kept checking my phone and then getting annoyed with myself for checking my phone. I typed messages and deleted them. I wrote “Are you okay” ten different ways and still did not send anything.
On the third day, I sent one message.
I’m here if you need me. No pressure.
She read it. She did not reply.
I took that as an answer.
The next few days were mostly quiet. I kept busy on purpose. I cleaned my place. I washed laundry. I went for walks. I bought groceries even though I did not need much, just to have something to do. I tried to act as if I was not waiting.
Then, on Friday evening, she sent a message.
I’m okay.
That was all.
I stared at it for a long time. I wanted to reply with ten lines, but I did not. I kept it short.
Okay. I’m glad.
She reacted with a thumbs up.
I sat on my bed and held my phone with both hands. I felt relieved and frustrated at the same time. She was talking, but she was not letting me in. I knew I had to accept that.
On Sunday, a full week after the visit, she called.
I answered immediately.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” she replied. Her voice sounded tired.
“How are you,” I asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, but she did not sound fine.
I stayed quiet for a moment. “Do you want me to come over.”
“No,” she answered quickly. “Not inside.”
“Okay,” I said. “Do you want me nearby.”
There was a pause. “Yes.”
“Where,” I asked.
“The parking area,” she said. “Downstairs.”
“I can be there in ten minutes,” I replied.
“Okay,” she said, then added, “Do not come up.”
“I won’t,” I said.
She hung up.
I grabbed my keys and left. I did not overthink it. I did not try to guess what she needed. She asked for something specific, so I did it.
When I got to her building, I saw her outside. She was sitting on the step near the entrance, arms wrapped around herself. No cardigan this time. Just a sweater. Her hair was tied back. Her face looked calm, but her eyes looked heavy.
I stopped a few steps away. “Hi.”
She looked up. “Hi.”
I did not sit next to her. I stood near the wall, close enough to be present, far enough to give her space.
We stayed quiet for a while. Cars came and went. People walked past. Leah did not look at anyone.
After a few minutes she said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what,” I asked.
“For making you wait,” she replied.
“I did not mind,” I said.
She glanced at me. “You did.”
I nodded. “Yes. But I still did it.”
She looked back down at her hands. “He called again.”
“When,” I asked.
“Yesterday,” she said. “He acted normal. He asked about school. He asked if I’m eating. He asked if I need money.”
“And you did not answer,” I said.
“I did,” she replied. “That was the problem.”
I stayed quiet. I did not want to push her into details she did not want to give.
Leah continued, “He said he wants to fix things. He said he misses me.”
I nodded. “How did that make you feel.”
She let out a breath. “Angry. Confused. Tired.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That makes sense.”
She looked up at me again. “He makes me doubt myself.”
“You don’t have to talk to him,” I said.
She nodded slowly. “I know. But he does not accept that.”
“You still don’t have to,” I said again.
Leah sat with that for a moment. Then she said, “I told you not to come to the library because I knew you would notice.”
“Notice what,” I asked.
She hesitated. “That I was not okay.”
I kept my voice calm. “I noticed anyway.”
She gave a small nod, then said, “I did not want you to see me in that state.”
“What state,” I asked.
Leah looked down. “Messy. Angry. Not in control.”
I took a breath. “Leah, I am not here for the controlled version of you only.”
Her shoulders tensed slightly, then relaxed.
She said, “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what,” I asked.
“This,” she replied. “Let someone be close while I’m dealing with him.”
I chose my words carefully. “You don’t have to do it perfectly. You just have to tell me what you need.”
Leah was quiet again. Then she asked, “Are you upset with me.”
“No,” I said. “I am worried about you. That is not the same thing.”
She looked at me for a moment. “You are being very calm.”
“I’m trying,” I replied.
She nodded. “Okay.”
Another silence.
Then she asked, “Did he say something to you.”
“Yes,” I said.
“What,” she asked, even though I could tell she already knew it was not going to be good.
I hesitated, then answered. “He told me to be careful. He said girls like you ruin men.”
Leah’s jaw tightened. “He always says things like that. He talks like women are problems.”
“I know,” I said.
She looked away. “I hate that he said it to you.”
“It does not change what I think,” I replied.
Leah turned her head back toward me. “And what do you think.”
I swallowed. “I think you have been trying very hard to be okay. I think you get tired. I think you still show up. I think you are honest when you can be. I think you asked for help, and that matters.”
Leah stared at me, quiet.
Then she said, “You sound certain.”
“I am,” I replied.
She looked down again. “I don’t want you to expect too much.”
“I’m not expecting anything,” I said.
She shook her head. “You say that, but I can tell.”
I did not argue. “Tell me what you are afraid of.”
She took a long breath. “I’m afraid you will see the worst parts and then decide it is too much.”
“I am still here,” I said.
She nodded, but she did not look convinced.
After a moment she asked, “Do you miss the library.”
“Yes,” I answered honestly.
She stared at the ground. “I miss it too.”
“Then why are you avoiding it,” I asked.
She shrugged. “Because it was ours.”
I felt my chest tighten at the word “ours.” Leah did not use words like that often.
“You can have it back,” I said. “When you are ready.”
She nodded slowly. “Not yet.”
“Okay,” I replied.
She sat there for a few more minutes, then stood up.
“I’m going inside,” she said.
“Okay,” I replied.
She took a step, then stopped. She looked at me as if she wanted to say something else.
“You can come back soon,” she said. “To the library.”
I did not move. “Are you sure.”
“Yes,” she replied. “But not tomorrow. Next week.”
“Okay,” I said.
She nodded, then went inside.
I stayed outside for another minute, then left. I walked home feeling lighter, but also careful. Leah had opened the door a little, and I did not want to rush through it.
During the week, we exchanged small messages. Nothing deep. Nothing long.
How was class?
Fine.
Did you eat?
Yes.
You?
Yes.
It was not romantic, but it was contact. It was Leah staying present in the only way she could.
On Monday, she sent a message.
Wednesday at 4.
That was all.
I understood. Library. Our table. The routine again.
On Wednesday, I arrived early and waited outside for a few minutes. I did not want to walk in first. I did not want her to think I was claiming the space. At exactly four, I went in.
I walked toward our usual area and stopped.
The table was empty.
No Leah. No cardigan. No coffee.
I stood there for a moment, confused. Then I saw a book on the table. It was closed, placed neatly, not abandoned. A note was tucked under it.
I picked up the note and read it.
I’m inside. Different section today. Come if you want, but don’t make it a big thing.
I stared at the words and smiled, even though my stomach was tight. That was Leah. She was offering closeness, but on her terms. She was also testing whether I could follow her lead without turning it into a big moment.
I put the note in my pocket and walked toward the back, scanning the aisles slowly. I did not rush. I did not call her name.
Then I saw her.
She was sitting on the floor between shelves, back against the bookcase, legs pulled in. Her glasses were on. A book was open on her lap. Her coffee was beside her, actually being drunk this time.
She looked up when I got close.
“You came,” she said.
“You told me to,” I replied.
She nodded once. “Sit.”
I sat on the floor a short distance from her, not too close. The aisle was quiet. No one else was there.
She looked at me for a moment, then said, “I’m not ready to talk about him.”
“Okay,” I said.
She nodded again. “But I missed you.”
My heart stopped for a second. Leah rarely said things directly.
I kept my voice steady. “I missed you too.”
She looked down at her book. “Don’t get excited.”
I smiled. “I won’t.”
She turned a page and said, “Tell me something true.”
I took a breath. “I was scared you would not come back.”
Leah was quiet, then she said, “I came back.”
“I know,” I replied. “Thank you.”
She did not respond, but she did not look away either. We sat there reading in the same aisle, close enough to feel the other person’s presence, quiet enough to stay calm.
And for that hour, it felt normal again.
Not perfect. Not fixed.
Just normal.
When I left the library that day, I kept thinking about the note, the different section, the way she had handled it. Leah was giving me a chance to prove something. Not with big words, but with small actions.
I promised myself I would keep doing it right.
I did not know yet how fragile “right” could be.
- Writer
