“??? ?????? ??????”

some love stories begin with a confession.

others begin with a simple “hello.”

but mine?

it started with,

“excuse me… i think you’re writing on the wrong notebook.”

i paused and slowly lifted my head.

you were standing beside my table at the library, pointing at the notebook i had been writing on for the past ten minutes.

i frowned in confusion before looking down.

the cover wasn’t mine.

the pen slipped from my fingers as realization finally hit me.

i had accidentally taken someone else’s notebook from the shelf beside my seat.

“oh my god…”

i covered my face out of embarrassment.

“i’m so sorry. i didn’t even notice.”

you laughed so softly that i almost didn’t hear it.

“it’s okay. don’t worry, i was more curious about why someone was writing on my notebook than i was angry.”

my face grew even warmer.

“please don’t read what i wrote.”

you looked at the half-filled page before closing the notebook.

“i won’t.”

“promise?”

“promise.”

you smiled as you handed me my actual notebook, which had been sitting beside your chair the entire time.

“i think this one belongs to you.”

that should’ve been the end of it.

two strangers.

one embarrassing mistake.

one awkward apology.

and nothing more.

but somehow…

life kept placing us in the same chapters after that.

—

the library became too small for the both of us.

every time i visited, i would somehow find you sitting by the same window with a pile of books surrounding you.

every time you noticed me, you would quietly slide the chair across yours with your foot.

you never asked me to sit.

you never had to.

it silently became our routine.

sometimes we studied.

sometimes we read.

sometimes we spent hours without saying a single word.

and strangely…

those quiet afternoons never felt awkward.

they felt comforting.

like silence had somehow learned how to speak.

—

i eventually learned the little things about you.

you never folded the corners of your books because you hated damaging pages.

instead, you used old receipts as bookmarks and always forgot where you placed them.

you drank coffee even when you admitted you hated the taste.

“then why do you keep ordering it?” i asked one afternoon.

you shrugged before taking another sip.

“because it keeps me awake.”

“there are other drinks.”

“yeah…”

you smiled while staring at your cup.

“but none of them remind me of afternoons like this.”

i looked away before you could notice my smile.

i didn’t know if you meant the coffee.

or me.

—

days became weeks.

weeks slowly became months.

without realizing it, i stopped going to the library because i wanted to read.

i went because i wanted to see you.

if your seat was empty, i couldn’t focus.

the words on every page blurred together because my eyes kept drifting toward the entrance.

waiting.

hoping.

counting every person who walked in.

until eventually…

you did.

and somehow…

the entire room felt complete again.

—

one rainy afternoon, the library announced an early closing because of the weather.

people hurried outside, trying to avoid the heavy rain.

we stood near the entrance together, watching the streets slowly disappear beneath the downpour.

“did you bring an umbrella?” you asked.

i shook my head.

“i thought the forecast was wrong.”

you laughed quietly.

“you trust forecasts too much.”

“and you?”

“i trust bad luck more.”

you opened your umbrella before looking at me.

“come on.”

“i’ll walk you home.”

the walk wasn't long.

but i secretly wished every traffic light would stay red just a little longer.

every slow step beside you felt like borrowed time.

and for the first time…

i realized i was already afraid of reaching the end of the road.

—

“can i ask you something?”

your voice broke the comfortable silence between us.

i looked at you.

“sure.”

“do you ever think…”

you hesitated before continuing.

“…that some people arrive in our lives only to change us?”

i stayed quiet.

because i already knew my answer.

you changed the way i looked at libraries.

the way i looked at rainy afternoons.

the way i looked at ordinary days.

you turned routines into memories.

and silence into something beautiful.

“yeah.”

i finally whispered.

“i think they do.”

you smiled.

but somehow…

there was sadness hiding behind it.

a sadness i didn't understand.

not yet.

—

the next afternoon…

your chair was empty.

i smiled to myself.

“late lang siguro.”

i waited.

one hour.

then another.

closing time came.

you never arrived.

i convinced myself you were just busy.

everyone gets busy sometimes.

that’s normal.

i repeated those words until i almost believed them.

—

the following week…

your chair was still empty.

your favorite books remained untouched on the shelves.

the librarian smiled at me apologetically whenever i looked toward the window.

as if she already knew who i was waiting for.

i stopped pretending i came there to study.

because the truth was…

i had forgotten how to read the moment you stopped showing up.

—

months passed.

the seasons changed.

students graduated.

new faces filled the library.

someone else eventually started sitting by your favorite window.

i almost asked them to move.

not because i owned the seat.

but because…

in my heart…

it was still yours.

—

one afternoon, while returning a book, the elderly librarian called my name.

“someone left this for you.”

she handed me a small brown envelope.

my hands trembled before i even opened it.

inside was a folded letter.

my name wasn't written on it.

because…

you never even knew my name.

only one sentence was written inside.

“thank you for making silence feel less lonely.”

i read those words again.

and again.

until the ink blurred because of the tears i couldn't stop.

you kept your promise.

you never read what i accidentally wrote in your notebook.

instead…

you became the most beautiful story i never got the chance to finish.

and until now…

every time i enter a library…

i still look toward the window first.

not for the books.

not for the view.

but for the person who once sat across me…

and unknowingly wrote themselves into every chapter of my life.

because some stories don't end with goodbye.

some stories simply stop…

right in the middle of the sentence…

leaving the rest of your life wondering…

how the ending was supposed to be.

end.

_______

“perhaps some people are never meant to stay; they simply arrive to leave behind a version of us that will spend a lifetime searching for the feeling they once called home.”