The next few days I did not see him, at least not right away. Then one day, there he was, sitting in the upper portion, right along the path I always walked. And I made the blunder of looking at his face. Again. And again. Almost every time I passed, my eyes flicked toward him, and almost every time, he noticed.
My dressing had started getting better too. A little more effort, a little more thought. If he was smart enough, he would have realized by now. And if he really was smart, maybe he should have left, because if he stayed, my heart definitely would not.
The next time I came with my brother, by some twist of fate, he sat in the chair directly behind him. Naturally, I did what anyone in my situation would do. I sat right next to my brother just so I could see him more clearly.
That was the first time I really noticed him properly. He was working on something, dressed in light gray. And so was I. I did not usually put effort into dressing for the library, but for some reason that day I had. A brand new gray sweater, my first time wearing it, and it matched his. Exactly. Cute, right? Maybe even fate.
But to be fair, I did have a small crush on someone else at that time too. So I told myself he was just a pretty face, someone who rarely showed up anyway since he hardly came once a week. Nothing serious. Just a face in the crowd. Out of my league, really. I was studying for finals, and wasting time on him was not in the plan.
Still, I could not help myself. I made random excuses to talk to my brother just so I could sneak another glance at the boy behind him. The funny thing was, he was practically just staring into space most of the time, barely doing anything. I even thought maybe he was autistic, or just very young and forced to study by his parents. Because he did not really work, he just sat, staring, or sometimes left. And since I was grinding so hard in those days, that kind of detachment stood out to me. Strange. Peculiar. And in some twisted way, intriguing.
Since I never had my glasses, I could not always tell who was who. I started recognizing him by other things—his walk, his gait, his hair, the way his silhouette stood out even when everything else looked blurry. That was how I identified him, and I was right most of the time.
I would see him here and there, just random glimpses. Nothing major. I was too busy with exams, too focused on my studies, too scared to actually approach him. So my memories from that stretch are just fragments, little flashes strung together. One day, I was eating lunch in my usual favorite spot when I saw him again. This time he came back with a bunch of guys. I assumed they were his friends and that he was some extrovert. I could not have been more wrong.
Without my glasses, I could not see properly, so I stared too long trying to confirm if it was him. Too long. We made eye contact. I panicked, hiding my face even as he walked right past me. Later I found out there was a park nearby. I was embarrassed, to say the least.
I had become so obsessed that I started taking note of when he came and went. I knew exactly when he went to pray, so I would slip out into the lawn and wait there, hoping to see him on his way back. It was embarrassing, especially because sometimes it took him forever to return. Still, I stood there anyway, just for the chance of catching a glimpse. It was not like I talked to him or even thought deeply about him. I just liked the idea of knowing he was in the same place as me. There were days when I went to the library only because I wanted to see him. That was it. No other reason.
One day, I saw him walking in the park while I was standing by the window. I wanted to keep watching, but I was scared he would notice me if I stayed too long. Later I realized something that made me laugh. From where he was, it was impossible to see anyone inside that window. I had been hiding for no reason at all.
Another time, I saw him get up to leave for the masjid. Something inside me urged me to go wait outside, but I didn't. I had to study. Still, while sitting there, I suddenly felt the need to take a break, to see if he was back. I went toward the window, and at that exact moment, he was returning. I caught the perfect glimpse of him walking by, heading toward the entrance, then disappearing inside. The timing was eerie. I had just gotten a feeling, and there he was.
Another day, I was sitting and studying when I saw him leave. He wore a red sweater. I did not see his face, just the outfit and the back of his head. From that distance, I wouldn't have been able to see his face even if he had turned toward me. But that is the way of the obsessed person. I knew it was him just from the silhouette. That was also the day I realized he sat on the lower floor, explaining why I sometimes could not find him. I did not go there, reminding myself I had to study. I told myself I would do it later.
One day, I came straight from college. I had my first viva that day, and I thought if I came to the library, I would have time to prepare for the next one before going home. I even picked up some sweets on the way. I was not expecting what I saw when I arrived. There he was, sitting in the sunlight, looking so calm it almost felt unreal. How could anyone look that calm? I dragged out the moment of stepping from the car, secretly hoping he would notice me. Then I ran inside. I did not even need my coat, but I carried it with me anyway, only to walk back out again just to put it in the car, hoping he would see me.
Another day, purely on hope that he might be there, I went straight to the library. I had noticed he was often in the garden around noon, so I timed it carefully, hoping to come around the same time. That day our timing almost matched. As I arrived, he was leaving, but at least I got to see him. I lingered in the car, talking about my coat as an excuse to delay stepping out. The strangest thing happened—he seemed to be waiting for me to come out, because only when I did, his car drove away.
It was just a random day. I settled in the café with Rumi's poetry, but the words, his presence, everything reminded me too much of my old friend. I cried in the car, letting memories of her and her deep love for God wash over me. Later, in the computer area, an older man I called Uncle started talking to me. I had planned to avoid him, but through the glass I spotted his shoes. He was here today. Sitting there.
Despite my better judgment, I suggested to Uncle we move to the café. Partly to hear him speak, partly because Uncle was loud, drawing the attention of everyone around us. I guided him there almost forcefully. And there he was. My crush, sitting by the main door, his back to us. Panic surged immediately. I dashed out under the pretense of retrieving my car key, giving myself time to collect myself. When I returned, I sat with my back to him, hoping he would not notice my panic.
He was talking with friends, and the topic shifted to being alone, then God. I thought of my old best friend, so deeply in love with God. That was when I decided I would approach him. Even if not romantically. Even if only for a brief connection, I wanted to know him. Perhaps in doing so, I could finally reclaim a fragment of the depth I had lost.
I was so distracted that I barely heard Uncle's words, nodding absently while my mind clung to every word my crush spoke. I wanted to hear something deep again, to feel that connection with someone who felt connected to himself, to nature, to God. I wanted to feel whole again.
Talking to Uncle helped, strangely enough. I even admitted aloud that I felt like crying. But then came the cringe. I said it a little too loudly, hoping he might hear, hoping he might take interest. I told the world I wanted a spiritually good friend, and slipped into using a male pronoun. I wanted him to hear, but apparently, not just him—his friends heard, and one of them repeated it back, and the group snickered. I wanted to die.
Later, when retrieving my laptop, I froze. Someone was in the computer area. Him—or at least I thought it was him. We made eye contact, and I panicked again, grabbing my laptop and rushing outside. I collapsed onto a couch, typing in Word, the same person? My heart pounded as he walked behind me.
I was smiling like an idiot. I liked him, truly liked him. What started as obsession had become infatuation. He was perfect. Exactly what I had always wanted. The problem? He didn't care about me at all. And that, strangely, made him more irresistible. I did not like him for his face, or anything superficial. Today, his face looked different, almost unrecognizable, yet I still loved him. It was the way he existed, the way he spoke, the way he carried himself. I was obsessed, and it felt like fiction.
When I arrived later, he was outside. I sat nearby with my book, pretending not to notice him, though my heart refused to cooperate. He didn't look at me. He probably didn't care. I followed later, uncertain of the order of events. He used the stairs; I went to charge my laptop. Later, in my car, I felt ecstatic. Gone was the earlier ache. I even recorded a short video saying, "If we end up together, I want you to know this is what I felt like back then," then drove away, elated beyond reason.
And then came a day when he wasn't there at all. Yesterday had been perfect. I had blushed uncontrollably the entire day, even at home. I told my best friend, then my colleague, even asked my sister-in-law for advice. I walked on the rooftop that night, trying to cool my cheeks. I realized it was real, not imagined. I missed him terribly. And yet, he never seemed around after our awkward encounters. Perhaps he was avoiding me.
Perhaps he didn't care.