The other day, she was studying when she caught a glimpse of him leaving. He wore a red sweater—soft, almost vivid against the gray of the library's dull concrete. She didn't see his face. Just the shape of him—the back of his head, the way the fabric hung from his shoulders. He was too far for a proper look; even if he had turned around, the distance would have blurred his features. But obsession makes its own logic. She knew. Knew without a doubt that it was him, just from the silhouette.
And that was when she realized something else: he must sit on the lower floor. That's why she hadn't seen him much before. That, and the fact that she had been too immersed in her own world to notice.
She didn't chase after him.
Not that day.
She had exams to prepare for, and this story—whatever it was—could wait. But she would return. And so would he.
Because in her quietest hopes, their timelines had already started to tangle.