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The Quiet Place

Chapter Ten

The library smells like dust and old paper, the kind of smell that clings to your clothes after you leave. Most kids avoid it unless they need to cram for a test, which makes it the safest place I know.

I slip between the rows of shelves, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing above me like tired bees. My usual spot waits in the back corner, behind a tower of encyclopedias nobody’s touched in years. It’s hidden, small, and just far enough from the windows that no one passing by can see me.

I sink into the chair and pull out a book I’m not really reading. The words blur, the sentences slip away. What I’m really doing is breathing. Just breathing, without the weight of eyes on me. Here, nobody asks why I dress the way I do. Nobody smirks when I hesitate over pronouns. Nobody cares if I cross my legs one way or the other.

From my pocket, I take out the note. The folds are already soft at the edges from how many times I’ve opened it. You’re not the only one. I read it again, lips moving silently.

The library is silent, but in that silence, the words feel louder. They echo in a way that doesn’t hurt.

For once, I don’t feel like I’m hiding. I feel like I’m waiting—like the world is just outside this quiet place, and maybe, one day, I’ll be ready to step into it.