Library

I met this girl at the library once. I think she was my soul mate.

My parents thought it would be a good idea to send me to the library at least twice a week. They had this idea that it would help me grow as a person. Maybe I would read a few books, meet a few smart people, and more importantly get some of my overdue homework done.

I've never been fond of libraries though. I mean, it's always quiet, and if you make a noise it's incredibly awkward because the people around you just stare until you shut up. My parents made my younger brother Max make sure I went to the library like I said I did. I really despised it a first, until I find my own little space, and then I didn't so much.

I sat in a smaller room, containing only a few tables. Every time I came there was a girl with glasses sitting not too far away, reading. She was really nerdy, and the first few times I saw her I made fun of her in my head. She probably doesn't have any friends. What a loser. Who reads anymore?

And then one day I saw her crying. Real tears streaming down her face. I was about to ask her what was wrong when I realized she was crying over the book she just finished reading. I was flabbergasted, how can somebody cry over a book?

She looked so fragile; I almost went over there. But I didn't. I just looked at her from my table as she brought a hand up to her heart and finally closed the book. She sighed, looking almost content, and continued to let the few tears trail down her delicate face. I never experienced that before, moved to the point of tears. How could that be?

With one last look at your face, and another at the book sitting in front of you I left the room.

Coming to the library ended up becoming a daily thing since that day. I checked out the book she was reading, and was surprised when I started crying by the end of the book as well. Not as much as she did, but it was something.

My family noticed a change.

None of it really mattered anymore. I mean, everything mattered; general things just didn't matter as much anymore. I'm not sure if that makes sense, but for me, it made all the difference.

She transformed my world, without even realizing it. She didn't even know who I was. But I knew who she was, oh how I knew.

I read all the books she read, usually not at the library, no. I spent my time at the library glancing at her to see her reaction to the book in front of her.

I loved when I saw a small smile shine through, and when she laughed at the clever way the words were placed on the page. Oh, I loved watching her react to the way a person arranged the same 26 letters I've been using all my life.

I wondered how I could have come this far in my life and not realize the beauty all around me until now. Far too late, now that I look back.

My favorite, though, is when she cried. There was something so innocent about her, that just, God I don't know. I wanted to know everything about her. The only was I could do that was by reading the books that touched her most. See, I knew who she was, because I knew what made her laugh and I knew what made her cry.

Even then, I was sort of jealous of the connection she had with the books in her hands, the way her fingers delicately threaded through the pages and almost caressed the leather bound papers. I was in awe of her, really. But she didn't notice me, not once. She didn't look up from her book and catch my eye across the room and smile. No, this was not a whirlwind romance. This was not a book that an author had written on a page. This was my life, and this was hers, and we were separate.

Sometimes I wish that I would've approached her and talked to her, but I was far too shy to do that. What's funny is that I was never shy before my encounter with her. She had changed me.

I appreciated smaller things more now, how could I not?

When I was at home, I was never really at home. I was constantly in another person's world, another life, another century even. I was hardly ever me. I was engaged to a Duke, I was a bum on the street, an Ibo man, a pedophile, and a brave little Mouse. See, I was hardly ever me, really. I was me, but then, I didn't really know who "me" was anymore.

I was afraid of you. I was genuinely terrified that you would not turn out to be the person I fell in love with. And yes, at that point I had fallen in love with you, whether I knew it or not. It is a bit odd isn't it? Falling in love with someone you've never spoken to. It wasn't a romance novel where the protagonist falls in love with a girl at first sight, either.

Because you weren't really beautiful, but you were beautiful. In every single way, you were beautiful, something I hadn't realized when I first saw you. I never really looked at you, because the you that I read in every single novel was enough for me. It was more than just knowing what made you laugh and what made you cry. It was understanding why you laughed and why you cried that tightened our bond so much more.

I was so caught up in falling in love with you, that I never really looked at you. And then, one day, you just didn't show up, and I panicked. And I realized I was in love with you.

My heart stopped that day, if that makes any sense. I busied myself with the book you were reading a few days ago, because I knew you would be there tomorrow reading another, or at least, I hoped.

And you were, but you looked a little more tired than usual, a little paler and ghostlier. And that, my friends, is when I noticed her beauty that I had over-looked every single day, until now.

It seems almost ridiculous to describe what she looked like, because what I write will not be the truth. The way I see her is not the way she truly looks. Although I can tell you, she was absolutely beautiful. She had black hair and glasses; those are the features that cannot be disputed. The rest can never be properly described.

She was absent again, a few more times, not consecutively, but enough for me to start to worry. I had grown accustomed to seeing her every day, sitting at her table.

When I realized that she wasn't coming, I wouldn't dare sit at her table, it was her table. When others sat there I felt as if they were tainting her domain. She was so pure and innocent, that it was almost difficult to imagine anyone infringing on her little bubble, her sphere of influence. The spaces that were hers, the books that were hers. That table, that was hers.

It took me a few more absences to drudge up the courage to ask the librarian about my little friend. The conversation, did not go as planned, for many reasons.

I did, however, manage to recover her name from the rubble.

Sonny. Son-ny. Sunshine. Sonny. Her name became my mantra.

I didn't return to the library after that day. Not for a while.

I didn't trust myself to pick out my own books, so I didn't.

I didn't trust myself to go back, so I didn't.

My parents noticed the change at once, and decided it was best to send me to see someone who could "help".

I didn't need help, but could I blame them? I did nothing but stare into space, thinking, reflecting, smiling, and sometimes even crying.

They sent me to the hospital, doctor's orders. I was a threat to myself, they said.

They didn't know.

Children's ward.

Filled with pictures of angels and butterflies and forests and sunshine.

Yes, sunshine.

Just a few doors down from me, as it happens.

Reading, as usual.

I walk into the "playroom" it's almost like a mini library.

I move towards the bookshelf and eye the worn out books in front of me.

I spot the first book that ever made me cry, and gently pull it out.

I stand and stare. My heart drops, and I sit, and I read.

She walks in and smiles. At me.

Ghostlier, paler, dying.

I smile back.

She sits in the beanbag next to me.

And we talk.

And she's beautiful. She's beautiful.

I'm afraid, now. Because she's beautiful. Because she's everything I could have asked for.

And because she's dying. She was dying, friends.

And without realizing it, I was dying too.

This isn't a romance novel.

I'm back home, and so is she.

We made plans to meet at the library.

She never showed.

We meet at the hospital.

Ghostlier, paler.

"This is it," she says.

I pick up the book on her bedside table and read to her.

She's quiet.

But breathing.

I'm gasping for air, choking back sobs. But I'm quiet.

I'm pulled back, ripped away from her limp grasp.

The nurse is dabbing at her forehead with a damp cloth. Fever.

My family, they bring me home.

Phone call. Come quick.

I stop by the bookstore and pick up my book, our book.

She struggles for breath as I read. And we both have tears blazing trails down our faces as I read the last word.

No, we didn't have time to read the entire book.

We didn't have time. Not enough time.

I still see you every day.

When the sun breaks through the clouds. Even when the clouds win, and the sun doesn't shine.

I still see you.

I read every day.

I've changed, see. You've changed me. Without knowing it.

I watch you read every day.

You're so beautiful, dear.

Maybe some day.

I don't think so.

This isn't a romance novel.

I was engaged to a Duke, I was a bum on the street, an Ibo man, a pedophile, and a brave little Mouse.

I was yours.

I am yours.

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