1. The Library, Again
Noah wasn't a superstitious person, but he found himself walking past the library steps three times that week.
He told himself it was because the philosophy section was on the third floor. He told himself it had nothing to do with the way Lena had laughed when he spilled her coffee. He told himself he wasn't hoping.
(He was hoping.)
On Thursday, just as the sun dipped low enough to paint the brick buildings gold, he saw her.
Lena sat cross-legged on the same steps where they'd met, a book open in her lap, a pencil tucked behind her ear. She was wearing an oversized sweater that slipped off one shoulder, and she was so engrossed in whatever she was reading that she didn't notice him standing there, frozen, five feet away.
Noah cleared his throat.
Lena looked up.
For a heartbeat, she just stared at him, unblinking. Then—slowly, deliberately—she closed her book and set it aside.
"You came back," she said. "I wasn't sure you would."
Noah's mouth went dry. "I, uh. I owe you a coffee."
Lena tilted her head. "You don't owe me anything."
"I want to." The words came out before he could stop them.
Something flickered in her expression—surprise, maybe, or amusement. Then she patted the space beside her. "Sit down, Noah."
He sat.
---
2. The Way She Underlined Sentences
Up close, Noah could see the book she'd been reading was *The Waves* by Virginia Woolf. The margins were filled with notes in tiny, looping handwriting. Some passages were underlined so fiercely the paper had nearly torn.
"You're brutal to your books," he said before he could stop himself.
Lena grinned. "I like words that fight back." She flipped to a page near the middle and pointed to a highlighted line: *"I am rooted, but I flow."*
Noah frowned. "What's that mean?"
"It means," Lena said, tracing the sentence with her fingertip, "some things stay. And some things don't."
The way she said it made his chest ache.
---
3. The First Real Conversation
They talked until the streetlights flickered on.
Lena told him about growing up in a coastal town where the fog rolled in so thick some mornings you couldn't see the water. She confessed she'd once stolen a library book when she was nine (*The Secret Garden*, and she'd returned it two weeks later with an apology note tucked inside). She hated the sound of chewing but loved the smell of gasoline.
Noah, who had never been good at talking about himself, found the words spilling out anyway. He told her about his father's funeral when he was sixteen, how it had rained so hard the mud swallowed the casket. He admitted he was terrified of graduating because he had no idea what came next. He said, voice barely above a whisper, "I think too much and feel too much and I don't know how to turn it off."
Lena listened like no one ever had—like his words were something precious.
When the silence settled between them, she reached over and brushed a thumb against his wrist. Just once. Just enough to make his breath catch.
"You're not too much," she said softly.
Noah believed her.
---
4. The First Time He Walked Her Home
It was nearly midnight when Lena stretched and said, "I should go."
Noah stood too quickly. "I'll walk you."
Lena raised an eyebrow. "You don't even know where I live."
"Doesn't matter."
She laughed, but she didn't say no.
They walked side by side through the quiet campus, shoulders brushing every few steps. Lena's apartment was in a crumbling brick building with a broken buzzer and a lobby that always smelled like curry. At the door, she turned to face him.
"Thanks for the coffee," she said, even though they'd never made it to the café.
Noah nodded, suddenly aware of how close they were. He could see the freckle just below her left eye, the way her bottom lip was slightly chapped.
Lena hesitated. Then, rising onto her toes, she pressed a kiss to his cheek—so quick he might have imagined it.
"Goodnight, Noah."
The door closed behind her before he could respond.
---
5. The First Time He Realized
Noah walked home in a daze, his skin still burning where her lips had touched.
He thought about the way she'd looked at him when he talked about his father. He thought about the way she'd said *You're not too much* like it was the simplest truth in the world.
And right there, under a streetlamp that flickered like a dying star, Noah realized something terrifying:
*I could love her.*
*I could love her, and it would destroy me.*