The Boy In the Library

There is something romantic about the Central Library. The world is always quiet in there. The perfect  tranquillity of life and the odour of knowledge and emotions resting calmly between the crispy pages. The feeling of being surrounded by so many books and so many stories, its enticing.

Central library is where I find the balm for the rough, raw edges of my wounded soul. Its where I calm my crowded mind and rest my heavy heart. Its where I bury my yesterdays and tomorrows. Its where I mourn the loss of love and hope.  Its where I draw the city of my dreams and see myself humming a tune of joy, strolling down a winding path, listening to the loud and sweet chirping of birds and admiring the brightly coloured roses. 

 I was sitting in the library writing my diary. Hiding my secrets and feelings, insecurities and mistakes, sadness and joy, and even the wounds and bruises that are invisible to the eye. I heard muffled but distinct sound of her sobbing quietly. She was wearing sweat pants. Her hair tied in a messy bun. Book in one hand, head staring down at the book and rubbing eyes with the other hand. She was like a painting or some riddle. Her face was a shimmering wet trembling façade. I tried reading what her face tended to convey. I could see pain, grief and anguish. The kind, when you are not ready to say goodbye to the characters you have fallen in love with. The way her eyes glistened and cheeks flushed, she was something irresistible. I closed my eyes as if I was trying to take in that moment. Before I could say anything she was gone.

Next day I kept my eyes glued on the door. I knew in my heart I had to wait so, I waited. The painful longing penetrated my heart deeply. I hoped she’d come out of nowhere and into my life. But the concept of hope is difficult to understand. She didn’t come and all that hope felt like a shard of glass ripping through my heart.

I came back to the library after two days. She was sitting in her usual spot. Beautiful, preternaturally beautiful, a paragon, goddess like. I just stared at her in awe. She giggled and then burst out laughing. The librarian hushed her but the ring of her laugh- how intoxicating. Enough to beat every nightmare. I gathered all the courage and sat right in front of her. She didn’t notice. She was buried deeply in the flat, rigid, squares of pages that unfold world after world. My body trembled and my legs won’t settle due to the headstrong infatuation.

I passed her a torn off page from my diary.

To the girl who leaves her heart in the books she reads.

Coffee?

She looked at me, paused for a moment. Smiled and quickly scribbled something on a piece of paper.

My heart was beating as fast as a horse’s gallop in a race. I hesitatingly took the piece of paper from her. It said;

  Yes.

I couldn’t believe my luck but i could see myself with her. I could picture it vividly.

Coffee and conversation just makes sense. We spent an hour in a nearby café. Discussing the books we read last and our current reads. She was talking about how she was affected by the character’s transformation and why she didn’t agree on author’s message. While I was looking at her beautiful face, the depths of her eyes. Like  a thousand worlds or a vast starry night. I drank in the sight of her. All else faded away into the background.

We started meeting in the library everyday. We would highlight our favourite parts and exchange books. Sometimes we would hid a note in between the pages. After umpteen library meetings and coffee dates I finally gathered the courage to make myself vulnerable, to entrust a portion of my soul to the hands of someone. I wrote her a letter;

Dear Belle,

If I am told to define love i would say your name.

If I am asked how should it feel, I’d say what feels like Home.

Love is what makes you comfortable. What You’re easy opening up to.

I love you, Belle.

Forever yours,

Lucas.

I realized it was a mistake. She stopped coming to the library and the café. She wasn’t texting back. I dialled her number for a zillion times but she didn’t answer the phone. Her love was embedded in the pores of my fingers, the vessels of my heart, the crunches of my bones. I loved her with every fibre of my being and  I didn’t know how to take it out from my bones. What to do with all of it if not keep it for her, if not shower it on her? She was my first mesmerizing emotion of utter utopian devotion. Enchanting fantasy which abruptly ended. I felt empty and my heart sank into the depths of a dark abyss. The feeling of desolation and a gaping hole inside was suffocating me.

After a week, I was sitting in the library. Quietly scribbling away in my diary. If I could write poems about her, I’d conjure a lovely tale. Suddenly, someone pulled the chair next to me, I looked up. It was her. She was sitting right in front of me. The person I had been dying to see was right in front of my eyes. I couldn’t utter a word. She took out a book from her bag and gave it to me. I read the title, The Boy in the Library. I opened it and read the first page;

To Lucas

The love of my life