Andini frequented the library not for the pursuit of knowledge, but for the assurance that the world could still be kept at arm's length.
The towering stacks and narrow, labyrinthine aisles offered her an illusion of symmetry—a silent proof that everything had its designated place, even the void.
That afternoon, she claimed a desk near the grand window.
The sun slanted inward at a sharp angle, carving golden geometric shapes into the floor and casting long, decelerating shadows.
She opened her book, but before she could internalize a single paragraph, the rhythmic, metallic sigh of wheels punctured the curated silence of the room.
Andini looked up.
Fani had come to a halt a few meters away, appearing to weigh the gravity of her next move—whether to advance or retreat. In her lap lay a slim, weathered volume with a spine bleached by time. She surveyed the room, her gaze eventually settling on Andini.
"May I?" she asked, her voice a fragile thread, gesturing toward the vacant chair at the table.
Andini offered a single, steady nod. "Please."
There was no performative relief, no unnecessary chatter.
Fani approached with a quiet deliberation, anchoring her wheelchair with practiced ease before setting her book upon the mahogany surface. They were close enough to acknowledge each other's presence, yet far enough to preserve the sanctity of their individual solitudes.
Seconds stretched into a shared, comfortable stasis. Andini returned to her text while Fani peeled back the cover of her own.
They read in a silence that felt less like a lack of sound and more like a mutual agreement—a recognition that not every encounter required the clutter of conversation.
"I come here often. The silence is deeper," Fani remarked, her voice barely a murmur.
"I know. Me too," Andini replied.
The admission was sparse, yet it carried the weight of a shared secret. Fani tilted her book slightly, revealing the title: Words That Never Finished.
A ghost of a smile touched Andini's lips. "I've spent some time with that one."
Fani turned her head, a flicker of genuine surprise lighting her features. "Really?"
"Yes. There's a particular line that refuses to leave me."
Fani waited, her question suspended in the expectant tilt of her head.
"Some wounds do not require a cure; they only ask for company," Andini recited softly.
Fani didn't respond immediately. Her gaze drifted toward the window, toward the bruised light of the dying afternoon.
"I like that," she said eventually, her voice thick with contemplation. "It doesn't demand a recovery. Sometimes, wounds don't need to heal. They just need to be allowed to exist."
Andini nodded. She understood that particular ache—the exhaustion of being surrounded by people who were so intent on 'fixing' things that they forgot the simple grace of witnessing them.
They retreated into their books, though the act of reading had become secondary to the act of being present.
"I'm Fani," she said abruptly, as if the formality of an introduction had only just occurred to her.
"Andini."
The names drifted like dust motes in the amber light before taking root in their memories.
"Are you fond of poetry?" Fani asked.
"I'm fond of the silence it leaves behind," Andini answered truthfully. "The poems just help give that silence a shape."
Fani offered a small, knowing smile. "I read to be somewhere else. Anywhere else."
Andini didn't ask for the coordinates of that 'elsewhere.' She let the statement stand on its own.
Outside, the sky had begun its slow transition into indigo. The library was hollowing out. A few students drifted past, phantom-like and indifferent. For the first time, Andini felt a profound gratitude for their invisibility.
As the clock neared the hour of dusk, Fani closed her book.
"I have to wait for my ride. They're usually quite late," she noted, a familiar resignation in her tone.
"Would you like some company?" Andini hesitated for a heartbeat. "If... you wouldn't mind."
As soon as the words left her mouth, Andini held her breath, a small, private hostage. She wondered if she had overstepped the invisible boundaries they had so carefully drawn.
Fani went still. Her fingers traced the frayed edge of her book—a nervous tic born of a lifetime of calculating whether she was an imposition. She searched Andini's eyes for the tell-tale signs of obligation or pity, but found only a tranquil, unblinking sincerity.
Fani finally nodded. "I wouldn't mind at all."
They emerged from the library side-by-side. No grand dialogue accompanied them; they simply shared the rhythm of the journey, Andini adjusting her pace to match the glide of the wheels.
At the rear parking lot, they came to a halt.
The evening breeze carried a lingering, tepid warmth. Fani checked her phone, a small sigh escaping her as she stared at the dark screen.
"Nothing yet," she said simply.
Andini claimed a spot on a nearby concrete bench. She offered no hollow platitudes, no forced cheer. She simply offered her presence, a quiet anchor in the fading light.
Minutes bled into a peaceful, shared duration.
"Thank you," Fani said quietly. "For earlier in class. And for this."
Andini shook her head. "It's nothing."
To anyone else, it might have sounded like a dismissal. But to Fani, it was a profound affirmation: Andini wasn't looking for a debt to be repaid.
When a car finally pulled up to the curb, Fani prepared for her departure. She paused, looking back just before the door closed. "Andini... tomorrow, where will you be sitting?"
Andini allowed herself a faint, cryptic smile. "It depends."
Fani let out a short, genuine laugh—a sound that made the heavy evening air feel suddenly, miraculously lighter.
The car pulled away, leaving the parking lot to the shadows.
Andini remained on the bench for a few moments longer, letting the wind brush against her face, feeling the first tremors of a world that was no longer quite so far away.