She had made plans with an old friend that day. It wasn't supposed to be about him—at least, not entirely. But she couldn't pretend her heart hadn't done its own silent calculations. She'd noticed a pattern: he often came on Saturdays. So, naturally, she suggested they meet at the library first, and then head to the park afterward. It was a convenient plan. Harmless. Convenient.
But deep down, she knew what she was hoping for.
He wasn't there when she arrived.
Her friend had no idea, of course. No clue about the quiet obsession playing out behind her casual smile. So she masked it. That strange mix of disappointment and anticipation. And because she couldn't ask to look for him—not without revealing too much—she did the next best thing: she improvised.
Excuses. Detours. Slow walks through familiar corners.
She led her friend toward the staircase, claiming curiosity. And that's when she saw him—well, maybe him. Head down on the table, tucked into the crook of his arm, hoodie pulled over just enough to keep his face hidden. But the hair looked familiar. Too familiar. It sparked recognition like a match to dry leaves.
She leaned closer to her friend and said, a little too loudly, that he was wearing the same hoodie as hers. She even added that she had the same one in white. The volume wasn't accidental. Maybe he'd hear. Maybe he'd stir. Raise his head. Confirm what her heart already suspected.
But he didn't move.
So she tried again. Suggested they check out the bookshelves. Claimed she wanted to browse—though really, she just wanted a better angle. At one point, she even pretended to make a video of her friend. The lights had gone out briefly, and in the hushed dimness, she recorded a soft clip of them talking.
That's when she heard movement. A chair sliding back. Someone rising. She froze.
A figure moved through the aisle, flashlight in hand. A black hoodie, a book open in one palm. She didn't need confirmation. Her instincts whispered it before her brain could name it: him.
She turned away quickly, kept her eyes down, and carried on the conversation as if nothing had changed. As if her entire body hadn't just tensed in recognition. He passed by. Then disappeared.
She told her friend they should leave now. Another excuse. Another bluff. The truth was, she just wanted to walk past his table. To see which book he'd chosen. To see if anything about him had been left behind.
And something had.
He was gone—but the book remained. Left open on the table, like a breadcrumb dropped just for her.
She leaned over and picked it up, asked her friend if it looked interesting. It did. It was on history. She turned a few pages absently, more focused on the fact that he had read it, read it, left it there.
But her attention was elsewhere. Her heart was already searching again.
They walked outside.
And there he was.
In the garden, walking slowly, hands in his pockets. The sight of him made her pulse lift—quiet joy blooming where just moments ago, there had only been guessing.
They were supposed to be heading to the car. But she wasn't ready to leave. Not yet.
So she made another excuse. Said she was hungry. Her friend agreed to stay, and they sat in the same area where he had been walking. She ate while trying not to glance up too often, speaking with ease, laughing just enough. The food was forgettable. But the moment wasn't.
They couldn't quite figure out where the park was, so they asked the guard. She felt mildly embarrassed not knowing, fumbling her way through directions she should've learned earlier. But her focus was elsewhere. Always, quietly, circling back to him.
Eventually, a car pulled up. Someone had come to take him home.
And just like that—he was gone.
Only then did they leave for the park.
But even as she walked away, a part of her stayed behind. In the library, in the aisle, in the garden. Wherever he had just been.