The next few days passed without seeing him. At least, not right away. And then, as if placed by some quiet fate, there he was, sitting in the upper portion of the library, right along the path I always walked.
Of course, I looked at him. I couldn't help it. Again, and again. Almost every time I passed, my eyes flicked toward him. Almost every time, he noticed.
I had started paying a little more attention to my own appearance, putting in subtle effort, a little more thought into what I wore. If he was observant, he would have noticed. And if he were truly clever, maybe he would have left—because if he stayed, my heart certainly wouldn't.
The next visit, I came with my brother. By some twist of fate, he sat in the chair directly behind him. Naturally, I followed suit, placing myself right next to my brother just so I could see him more clearly.
That was the first time I truly noticed him. He was working on something, dressed in light gray. And so was I. I had never cared much about dressing for the library, but that day I had worn a brand-new gray sweater, the first time I'd worn it, and it matched his exactly. Cute, right? Maybe even fate.
But I tried to reason with myself. I did have a small crush on someone else at the time. This was just a pretty face, someone who rarely showed up anyway. Nothing serious. Just a face in the crowd. Out of my league, really. Finals were looming; I wasn't supposed to waste time on him.
Still, I couldn't help myself. I found excuses to speak to my brother, just so I could steal another glance at the boy behind him.
The odd thing was, he did almost nothing most of the time. Just staring into space. Barely moving. I wondered if he was autistic or just very young, forced to study by his parents. He didn't work much; he just existed in this calm, detached way. And since I was grinding so hard, that quiet stillness stood out. Strange. Peculiar. And in some twisted way, captivating.
I didn't always have my glasses, so I had to rely on other clues—his gait, his posture, the silhouette of his hair. Even blurry, he was unmistakable. And usually, I was right.
I caught glimpses here and there. Random moments, nothing concrete. Too focused on exams, too scared to approach him. My memories of that time are fragmented, little flashes strung together like fireflies.
Once, while eating lunch in my usual spot, I saw him again. He came with a group of boys. I assumed they were friends and that he was outgoing. I couldn't have been more wrong.
Without my glasses, I stared too long, trying to confirm it was him. Too long. Our eyes met. I panicked and hid my face, even as he walked past. Later, I found out there was a park nearby, and I was utterly embarrassed.
My obsession grew quietly. I started noting when he arrived and left. I knew when he went to pray, so I would slip outside to the lawn, waiting for him to pass.
It was embarrassing, especially when he took forever. Still, I stayed. Not to talk, not even to think about him in depth, just to know he existed in the same space. There were days I came to the library purely to see him. Nothing else.
Once, I saw him walking in the park from the window. I wanted to linger, to watch, but feared he'd notice. Later, I laughed at myself. From where he stood, it was impossible to see anyone inside. I had been hiding for nothing.
Another time, he got up to leave for the masjid. Something urged me to go outside, but I didn't. I had to study. Then, while sitting, I felt this sudden, compelling urge to check. I walked to the window, and there he was, returning. The timing was uncanny, almost eerie, as if the world had shifted just to place him in my line of sight.
One afternoon, I saw him leaving in a red sweater. I didn't see his face, just the back of his head, his outline. But obsession sharpens perception; I knew it was him instantly. That was also the day I realised he often sat on the lower floor, which explained why I sometimes couldn't find him. I didn't go down, though. I had to study. I promised myself I'd check later.