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The library became my sanctuary after my mother’s passing. Between towering bookshelves and the sounds of turning pages, I could disappear into fantasy worlds that made far more sense than mine ever did. When I was living at home, it was the only place I could go to for peace and quiet, but after a while, it became a habit.

That Tuesday afternoon in December, I’d gotten bored with the library I usually went to and needed a change of pace; I’d already learned every nook and cranny, dug through all the books. The stupid painting of the deer staring at me was driving me mad.

I’d claimed a spot in the back corner, calculus textbooks spread before me. There was a battle in my brain, one that I was destined to lose, because calculus was a requirement for my class. It was also the bane of my existence.

That’s when I saw her.

She moved through the stacks—a phantom figure, fingers trailing along book spines. Her burgundy hair caught the filtered sunlight streaming in through the tall windows, creating a halo effect that made her seem almost ethereal. I found myself staring at her, pencil frozen mid-equation. I was completely mesmerized.

She wore bell-bottom jeans with a white tank top that was covered by a tightly crocheted green cardigan that cropped and tied just beneath her chest. The wings of her sleeves swayed with every movement.

This woman was beautiful–devastatingly so. High cheekbones, lips that lined themselves with fullness, the faintest smile as she read book titles that must’ve triggered a memory for her. But beyond that, there was something else there, something that made my unease tighten with an unfamiliar ache. Sadness. Deep sadness that seemed to emanate from her core. Yes, she was smiling, but it didn’t translate to her eyes.

When an elderly woman went to her, telling her it was time for her break, she selected a worn copy of Jane Eyre and turned towards the chairs in the reading area. She sat down, reached around to pull all of her hair to one side; when she did, her sleeve slipped up, revealing faded yellow-green marks all along her forearm.

My pencil snapped in half.

The sharp crack echoed in the quiet space, and her head turned toward the sound. Our eyes met across the distance, and I felt something shift inside me. Her gaze was guarded, skittish; underneath the wariness, I caught a glimpse of something else. The look in her eyes reminded me of, well, me.

“Sorry,” I mouthed, holding up the broken pencil.

She offered me a weak smile, then looked away to continue reading. She was close enough I could watch her without being obvious about it, close enough to notice how she kept tugging at her sleeves to make sure her arms stayed covered.

I tried to return to my homework; I really did. This grade was important. Calculus seemed so insignificant when a literal angel was sitting only thirty feet away. Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to do something, say something, offer help—build a goddamn fortress around her and keep the world at bay. Instead, I sat frozen. I had no idea how to approach this gorgeous, broken girl without possibly making everything worse for her.

I managed maybe four equations in total during the entirety of her shift. I spent the rest of the time stealing glances and constructing elaborate scenarios in my head. Each one involved me being brave enough to walk over there, charm her enough to make her smile for real, and strong enough to stand between her and whoever had left those marks on her skin.

When she finally gathered her things, ready to go home for the day, I felt panic rise in my throat. This was the first time I’d come here, and I had no clue when she’d be back again. What if I missed her? What if this was my only chance to—

The woman began walking toward the exit, purse slung over her shoulder with her book clutched against herself. As she passed my table, she paused. My heart hammered so hard I was certain she’d be able to hear it.

“A pencil,” she said softly, placing a mechanical pencil on my book. “You looked like you could use it.”

Before I could respond, or thank her, or any of the thousand things racing through my head, she was gone. Just a whisper of vanilla and the memory of her smile that replayed in my mind for hours.

I sat there long after she left, that borrowed pencil rolling between my fingers, knowing with absolute certainty that girl was going to change my entire life.

Somehow, someway, I was going to find out how she got those bruises. If it was someone, I was going to make sure they never left another one on her again.

The mechanical pencil became my most prized possession. I carried it everywhere, waiting for the chance to return it. Not because I wanted to give it back, but because it would be an opportunity to have a conversation with her.

Three days later, I saw her again.

I’d taken to haunting the library; I’m no more than some lovesick ghost, waiting for my lost love to return to the last place I’d seen her. Homework was serving as a flimsy excuse for my vigil, though I wasn’t getting much done while I was there.

When she appeared between aisles, relief flooded through me so intensely that my legs shook.

She looked worse.

The bags under her eyes were dark, like she hadn’t slept since the last time she was here, and a blue bruise peeked out of the collar of her shirt. My eyesight blurred with rage in a way it never had.

I didn’t have the courage to talk to her that time, but I kept watching the entire day. On her lunch break, a silver car pulled into the parking lot, and the woman went out to sit with the man in the driver’s seat. His face was angry; it didn’t seem like he was screaming at her, but the second he raised his voice in frustration, I saw her flinch. It was small, but it was enough to make me stand from my seat, ready to run out there if she needed protection.

This time, at the end of her shift, I didn’t let her leave without following.

I wasn’t sure what kind of person this made me, but watching her walk away, knowing she was going back to whatever hell had marked her, I couldn’t just allow it again. I couldn’t sit there and pretend I didn’t care, and my chest wasn’t caving in every time I caught sight of the injuries.

She drove fifteen minutes out of town to a house that sat down a long driveway tucked behind a patch of trees. I hung back, anxiety at its peak, telling myself I was just making sure she got home safe. That I was leaving once I knew where she lived.