We talked for almost three hours that day, the kind of long conversation that stretches time and makes you forget everything else. I didn't realise until later how rare it was for us to speak in between those long talks. Back then it never felt like anything was missing. Now it does. Now this silence feels like the end of something I wasn't ready to let go of.
We spoke about attachment and how easily it hurts. I told him about an old friend I had lost. He told me about a crush from his childhood. Hearing him speak about her, how clearly he remembered her, how tenderly he held the memory, hurt far more than I expected. It made me realise I could never compete with something so untouched and ideal. The way he described her made her sound porcelain, delicate, preserved. I felt small beside that memory.
We argued a little about love and lust, half serious, half teasing, and he said we would continue another time. I told him I would prove him wrong. Then my driver arrived, and we parted.
He texted after I got home. I missed it and woke at midnight to his message. I asked him repeatedly what he had wanted to say, but he didn't tell me. The next day he said he had wanted to talk about his crush, but the moment had passed. I wanted to know. He refused.
He always did that: gave me just enough to ache for more.
Later, he spent an entire day alone at Read and Write while I was at home reading manga. I had to visit my aunt, and by the time I reached her place, he had left. It was ordinary, but something about the timing stung.
The next day, I searched my shelves for the Masnavi because I had promised him I would give it to him. He told me to come early, and I lied, telling him eleven-thirty instead of twelve-thirty. I wore a dark green outfit that suited my skin. I wanted to look nice, even if I told myself I didn't.
When I found him, he was by the senior citizens' room, holding a book. We stepped outside together just as my mother called to pick me up for a charity funfair. I delayed her, wanting a little more time with him.
He seemed exhausted or irritated, I couldn't tell which, and I realised it was because I wasn't speaking enough. I listened more than I responded. He liked people who challenged him. I wasn't doing that. When he said it, it stung, not because he was wrong, but because I liked him so much that I hated disappointing him.
He asked my thoughts on feminism. I said I wasn't a feminist. He didn't believe me. And because I wanted to show him I did have opinions, I pushed back, clumsily and awkwardly. It didn't land well. I felt exposed and uncomfortable.
We'd only talked two hours before I had to leave. For us, that was short. The funfair was boring. I texted him that it was boring.
Another day, during winter, I was already sitting outside when he arrived. I was reading Never Eat Alone, and he asked what the book meant. I said I didn't know yet. He said I was eating alone in every way if I didn't even know the meaning of the book I was reading. It was the first time I had to respond seriously. I froze. I wasn't used to being questioned by him. Normally, he was the one explaining everything.
We talked again another afternoon, two or two-and-a-half hours. Later, my parents and I ran errands. We sat in the fire hydrant area. When my mother called, he hummed in the background. It made me want to hit him. I didn't journal then because I thought this would never end. I believed this rhythm of ours would stay forever. It became normal. I thought it always would be.
Then one day we talked for four hours again, and I was surprised by how we always had something to say. Every glance, every pause, every shift of expression carried weight. Even silence meant something. The way he waited for my response, the warmth in his voice, the depth in everything he said—it lingered long after I left.
Being near him was enough.
Hearing him was enough.
Witnessing him was enough.
I didn't need more than that.
That day, I was hiding from my uncle and wearing a mask, so I couldn't sit by the window where we usually sat. I had to sit in the fire hydrant area instead. When I returned from the washroom, he was there—sitting in the fire hydrant area too. I asked why. He said uncle might come to the other place.
Normally, I would have cleaned the spot myself before sitting, but I was wearing white and didn't want to stain it. Before I could do anything, he cleaned the spot for me. It was small. It was simple. But it was so sweet it stayed with me for days.
Then came our last meeting.
I knew it was coming, but the reality still hit like cold wind. I had assumed we would continue seeing each other on Saturdays. I didn't know he would stop coming altogether.
He told me he wouldn't be coming to the library anymore. The next day he would begin teaching; his parents had told him his time of peace was over. Hearing that felt like losing something I didn't know how to keep.
He even joked that if I couldn't find anyone, we should just get married. From being utterly obsessed with him to hearing him joke about marriage—it pulled me in even deeper. That day was my last day too, so the longing doubled inside me.
After that began a cycle I couldn't escape. When we didn't talk, I grew sad and obsessive. And every time I finally let go, he would text out of nowhere, pulling me back. The timing was always perfect, almost uncanny. My notifications were off, but I somehow sensed his messages before checking.
Every fall into obsession was followed by a hit of dopamine from him. I sank deeper. It became a rhythm we never acknowledged but lived anyway.
The next day was the start of my house job. I sent him a picture saying I arrived early while my friends were late. He replied with a simple good morning. That one message gave me energy for the whole day. I found myself waiting for his texts, craving them even. It felt comforting, having someone to greet in the morning.
Later, he randomly asked me to call. Just an hour before, I had cried remembering my aunts and everything they had endured. Their stories weighed heavily, and my mother always said I carried pieces of both of them inside me. Maybe that was why.
That day, I realised how deeply he affected me. I had never considered meditation before, yet suddenly I found myself doing something close to it—sitting with myself, observing my thoughts. I could finally be alone with myself for hours. A new kind of peace.
He texted about changing his routine, even suggested watching a spiritual series together. It felt comforting, this closeness.
I kept updating him about everything. Telling him when I got free. Ranting about my day even when he didn't ask. It had become natural. Necessary. A quiet thread I held onto tightly.
And every exchange, every thread of connection, drew me closer to him. The obsession grew quietly, settling into the rhythms of my days, my thoughts, my slow moments of stillness.
It became part of me.
And I didn't know how to undo it.