Hena never talked to boys.
Not because she thought she was better than them.
Not because she didn't notice the way they looked at her in the hallways.
But because she had been taught, from a very young age, that distance was safety.
Her world had always been small. Predictable. Controlled.
Her father was a man of discipline. A man who believed reputation was more fragile than glass and twice as valuable.
"Respect," he used to say, his voice calm but firm, "is the only wealth that cannot be rebuilt once lost."
And Hena believed him.
She believed every word.
So she lived carefully.
She went to college. Attended her classes. Took notes. Answered when teachers asked questions. And when the day ended, she went straight home.
No detours.
No unnecessary conversations.
No risks.
Other girls laughed loudly in groups, their voices echoing across the campus courtyard. They shared secrets, teased boys, created memories.
Hena watched from a distance.
Not with jealousy.
But with quiet acceptance.
That kind of life was not meant for her.
Or at least, that's what she thought.
Until the day everything changed.
It was an ordinary afternoon.
The sun hung high above the campus, casting soft golden light through the tall windows of the college library.
Hena sat alone at her usual table near the back. The place where no one disturbed her. The place where she felt invisible.
Her fingers moved carefully across the pages of her notebook, copying formulas with perfect precision.
Focus. Discipline. Control.
The three pillars of her life.
Around her, the library hummed with low whispers and turning pages. The smell of old paper and dust filled the air.
It was peaceful.
Safe.
She liked it that way.
She reached for a reference book on the edge of the table at the same moment another hand did.
Her fingers froze.
Warm skin brushed against hers.
It was accidental. Brief.
But it was enough to make her heart stutter.
She pulled her hand back instantly, her breath catching.
"I'm sorry," a voice said quickly.
It was a male voice.
Gentle.
Not loud. Not demanding. Just… careful.
Hena looked up.
And for the first time, she saw him.
He wasn't what she expected.
He didn't look arrogant. He didn't look confident.
He looked… normal.
Simple black hair. Slightly messy. Dark eyes that held something she couldn't immediately name.
Kindness.
Or maybe uncertainty.
He held the book awkwardly, as if unsure whether he should keep it or offer it to her.
"You can take it," he said softly.
Hena blinked.
"No, it's fine," she replied quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
He hesitated.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't a perfect smile.
It wasn't charming in the way movies described.
It was nervous.
Real.
"I've seen you here before," he said.
Her chest tightened.
Had he?
She didn't know how to respond.
No boy had ever spoken to her like this before.
Not directly.
Not without expectation.
He seemed to notice her discomfort.
"I'm Arif," he added quickly. "We're in the same class."
She knew that.
She had seen him.
He sat near the window during lectures. Always quiet. Always listening.
She had never imagined he noticed her too.
"Hena," she replied softly.
Her name felt unfamiliar on her own lips in this moment.
As if saying it here, to him, meant something different.
Something dangerous.
Arif nodded, as if committing her name to memory.
Silence settled between them.
It wasn't uncomfortable.
But it wasn't easy either.
It was new.
Unfamiliar.
Fragile.
He placed the book gently on the table between them.
"You're good at keeping notes," he said. "I've seen the way you write."
Her heart skipped.
He had been watching her.
Not in a way that felt threatening.
But in a way that made her feel… seen.
"I just try to understand," she replied.
He smiled again.
"I try too," he said. "But sometimes I fail."
There was honesty in his voice.
Honesty she wasn't prepared for.
Honesty she wasn't sure she could trust.
Because honesty led to attachment.
And attachment led to pain.
That's what she had always believed.
That's what she had always avoided.
She closed her notebook slowly.
"I should go," she said.
It was safer that way.
Distance.
Always distance.
He nodded, stepping aside to let her pass.
He didn't stop her.
He didn't ask her to stay.
And somehow, that made leaving harder.
She walked out of the library, her footsteps quiet against the polished floor.
But something felt different.
Something had shifted.
She could still feel the warmth of that brief accidental touch.
Still hear his gentle voice in her mind.
Still see the way he smiled.
She didn't understand why it mattered.
She didn't understand why it stayed with her.
But it did.
And for the first time in her carefully controlled life…
Hena realized something terrifying.
Some distances were harder to maintain than others.
And she didn't know it yet—
But that single moment in the library had already begun to change everything.