I didn't think about him again—not until the next day in the library, where we had decided to meet for our project.
But once I did, I couldn't stop.
I caught myself observing him without meaning to, reading too much into the little things. I hadn't forgotten his words.
I noticed how precise he was when taking notes, how he never stumbled over words.
And what stood out the most? Even the smallest mistake, and he'd start over.
A slight shift in the ink, a barely noticeable imperfection—and he'd turn to a fresh page.
At some point, I must have dozed off at the library.
I dreamed of James.
The same boy. The one who died.
The same cracking of bone.
The same scream—cut short too soon.
I woke up, shaking.
He was sitting across from me, still working.
Unbothered as always.
His pen scratched against paper. Then he glanced up, meeting my eyes for a few seconds before going back to writing.
"We should start with the research," he said, voice cool and unfazed.
I didn't respond immediately—still reeling from the dream, still wondering if it was truly nothing personal.
"Are you always this serious?" I muttered.
He tensed for a mere second at the sudden sound of my voice but then blinked. "Is there another way to be?"
I exhaled, shaking my head.
What was I thinking?
This is going to be a long, long project.
---
The library was nearly empty now
—just the rustle of pages, the distant
hum of the AC, and the quiet tap of his pen against the desk.
I had been pretending to work for the past twenty minutes, but in reality, I was just watching him.
Every movement, every choice he made, was exact. He would flinch at every sudden voice. Something was wrong here.
Even the way he placed his books—lined
up perfectly, their edges sharp against
the table.
It shouldn't have unnerved me.
It shouldn't have made me feel like one wrong move would shift something in his head.
But it did.
He sighed suddenly, clicking his pen closed. "You're staring."
I tensed. "I wasn't."
A pause. A slow blink. "Lying is inefficient."
That was the first time I felt something
like… amusement. The tiniest, most
fleeting thing.
"If you're going to lie," he continued , his voice was measured , flipping a page, "you should at least do it well."
I huffed, leaning back. "You always this fun at parties?"
His lips twitched—not a smile, just
a fraction of something that never quite reached his eyes.
"I don't go to parties."
Of course he didn't.
The silence stretched between us again. That was the thing about him—it was
never uncomfortable. Just measured.
But I had questions. Too many.
"That night," I started, carefully, watching his reaction. "You were at the funeral."
"Yes."
"You didn't look sad."
He finally met my gaze. "Should I have?"
A normal person would have been thrown off by that. A normal person would have laughed awkwardly or changed the
subject.
But he wasn't normal anymore, was he?
"Most people would be."I forced out
"I'm not most people."
I didn't have a response to that.
Instead, I closed my book, gathering my things. "We should go. It's late."
He didn't argue. Just packed up his books
in the same, perfect order he always did.
We left the library together, stepping into the crisp night air.
The campus was quiet. Dim streetlights cast long shadows, stretching across the pavement like thin, skeletal fingers.
I shouldn't have been scared.
I wasn't.
Not really.
But I was aware.
Of the space between us.
Of the way his footsteps barely made a sound.
Of how he didn't shiver, even as the cold settled into my bones.
At some point, I exhaled. "You walk like you're trying not to exist."
He glanced at me, eyes unreadable.
"Maybe I am."
---