I had the best day with him. He was exactly like I had imagined, the way I had pictured him in those quiet, obsessive glimpses at the library. For a moment, when I came back home, I wondered if he had been faking it, saying the right things just because he knew my interests. But no, that was not true. I knew it in my heart. We had talked for four hours straight. No one can fake that.
I asked if he could bring the book. He said he would bring it tomorrow. I told him I had to go to college and added a crying emoji. He laughed and sent me a picture he had received from the meditation workshop. They had cropped him out, which made me laugh too, silently, at the absurdity and the timing of it all.
Then came the day my brother visited, and the awkwardness of it all hit me. I do not remember if it was before or after our long talk, but I found myself in the library again, sitting with him for the second time, which made it technically our third meeting. I had foolishly invited my brother, not thinking how strange it would feel if I ran into my crush while he was around. He was handsome, and I knew my brother would misunderstand everything.
But what happened, happened.
I had texted my crush that I would take the book from him, but the message was not seen. I assumed he wasn't coming. And then, unexpectedly, there he was. I do not remember if I went down those stairs on purpose to catch a glimpse or if it was pure coincidence, but there he was.
After our first conversation, I thought things would be casual, friendly. I had taken the awkward step of approaching him first, and I expected him to continue it. Instead, he ignored me completely, holding his head low as I crossed him on the stairs. I froze for a moment, gathering my courage, before finally asking, "Did you bring your book?"
He looked shocked, rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, and replied. I followed him inside until he sat down. I gave him my things to hold while I stepped out, but when I came back, he was no longer where I had left him. He had moved to another window, using his laptop, even forgetting his phone. Later, a girl warned me to be careful around him, and my brother echoed the same sentiment.
I walked for hours in college, retelling everything to a friend, every word he had said, every lesson he had shared, how it made me feel like my mind had stretched into new spaces. Days later, he brought the book. Other people surrounded me, talking loudly, but I managed to take it from him. I struggled to focus on his face. Even now, when I think back, I remember only the way he had looked in those early days, and I still cannot tell if that person is exactly the same as the one sitting in front of me now.
We had deep conversations that lingered in my mind. Hours would pass, yet I never tired of listening, of sharing, of trying to articulate what it felt like to be alive in the presence of someone so calm, so perceptive, so entirely himself. We spoke for hours at a time, and later, I would leave social gatherings or dinners, my mind replaying every phrase, every laugh, every glance.
Sometimes he would ask me questions I did not know the answers to. It became our little ritual. He would ask, and I would look at him helplessly, silently saying, "I don't know." Then he would smile and tell me the answer, a soft warmth in his voice that made my chest ache.
I loved the small interactions: the way his nose crinkled when he laughed genuinely, the way he covered his face with his hand when he made a point, the way he could tell, just from my expression, that I understood. In those moments, he seemed like a completely different person—lighter, more approachable, and yet still impossibly distant. And somehow, all of it was adorable.
Yet I struggled. I could never tell if he was the same person I had glimpsed in those early library moments, the same silhouette I had memorized, the same quiet presence I had obsessed over. Faces shift in memory, and sometimes his seemed to change before my eyes.
Even in the simplest of moments, we found connection. We talked for hours, and I would go to visit Nano afterward, missing the depth of our conversations and the ease with which our minds had met. I remembered what it was like to value dialogue, to share thoughts, to feel understood in ways I hadn't appreciated before.
We spoke late into the evenings, for hours, for days. Life's ordinary events—the results of exams, celebrations, mundane dinners—slipped by unnoticed because my thoughts were always with him. The fact that I had become a doctor seemed irrelevant next to the conversations we shared, the lessons we exchanged, the way he made the world feel fuller and calmer at once.
And yet, he remained a mystery. His expressions, his moods, his face sometimes appeared different, shifting as though memory and reality danced around each other. I could never fully capture him, and perhaps that was the point.
Through it all, I noticed the small, intimate gestures that filled me with quiet joy: the way he waited for my response before speaking, the way he smiled when he explained something patiently, the soft, subtle ways he revealed himself without even trying. And I realized, in the constant flow of conversation and observation, that I had finally found something rare—someone who made the ordinary extraordinary, someone who awakened both awe and reflection in equal measure.
~
We talked for hours, two, two and a half, sometimes stretching close to three. I noticed how, in between those long talks, we hardly spoke, yet it never felt like anything was missing. But now, in this quiet pause, it feels like everything has ended. It feels like it will not get better anymore.
We spoke of attachment and the ache it leaves behind. I told him about an old friend I had lost, and he spoke of his own old crush. The conversation was gentle, honest, yet it hurt me to hear how vividly he still remembered her. They had met in middle school, and the memory of her lingered in his heart. That made me sad and also made me realize that I could never measure up. The way he described her made her seem almost doll-like, delicate, untouchable. There was no chance here.
A small argument rose between us, playful and tense, about love and lust. He said we would discuss it another time, and I, determined, promised I would prove him wrong. My driver arrived to take me home before the discussion could continue. Later, he texted me. I had fallen asleep and woke to his message at midnight, my heart racing. I kept asking what it was, desperate to know, but he would not tell me. He finally revealed, the next day, that he had wanted to talk about his crush—but by then, the moment had passed, and it no longer felt right. I had wanted to hear it so badly, but he would not budge.
He spent the day at Read and Write, on a solo date. I was at home, reading manga, oblivious. He stayed there the whole day. I went to visit my aunt, and while I was with her, he left.
I searched my shelves for the Masnavi because I had promised to give it to him. He asked when I would come, saying he would be there from nine. I told him I would come at eleven thirty, but I arrived closer to twelve thirty, dressed carefully in a dark green outfit that suited my skin. I wanted to look right, to feel composed, to be noticed.
I found him near the senior citizens room, holding a book and standing by a bookrack. I went to him, and then we stepped outside together. My mother called, wanting to pick me up for a charity funfair where I was volunteering. I told her to wait, delaying my departure because I wanted to stay with him.
He seemed slightly distant, perhaps annoyed that I had not spoken my mind. That was true—I had been listening more than speaking. He liked people who challenged him, and I realized I was not doing that. When he said it, it stung, and I felt self-conscious, offended. I liked him too much for it not to hurt.
He asked my opinion on feminism. I admitted I was not a feminist. He seemed unconvinced. I had tried to go against him, to assert my own view, to show I had a voice—but it did not go well. I froze under the pressure, feeling put on the spot.
We had only two hours together that day, a short time for us, and my driver arrived to take me to the funfair. I apologized and left. The fair itself was dull, but I went anyway, sending him a message to complain that it was boring.
~
Another day, in winter, I sat outside reading Never Eat Alone when he arrived. He asked what the book was about. I hesitated, unsure. He teased, saying I was eating alone if I did not even know what it meant. I froze, caught off guard—the first time I had to speak up and give an opinion. Usually, he guided the conversation, and now I had to assert myself. My mind went blank.
We spent long hours talking again, sometimes two, sometimes two and a half. Later, I ran errands with my parents, sitting in the fire hydrant area, and he hummed softly in the background. It made me want to punch him, though it was the kind of gesture that made me ache with affection too. I didn't write much during those days; I was too present, too caught up in the rhythm of our conversations, the quiet obsession that had become normal. I assumed it would stay that way.