The library on a Thursday afternoon was a place of deceptive stillness. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and the hushed, rhythmic scratching of pens against paper. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, illuminating dust motes that danced like tiny, silent ghosts above the mahogany tables.
Sophie sat in her favorite nook, tucked between "European History" and "Sociology." It was the perfect vantage point, quiet, secluded, and unfortunately, offered a direct line of sight to Table Four.
Table Four was currently occupied by Ethan.
He was leaning over a thick biology textbook, his brow furrowed in a way that made Sophie's own forehead tingle. She had her own notebook open to a page of French verbs, but "Vouloir" and "Pouvoir" were currently losing the battle for her attention.
"Focus, Sophie," she whispered, the sound barely a puff of air. "Irregular verbs. Conjugation. That is why we are here. We are not here to count how many times he runs his fingers through his hair."
(It was four. Four times in ten minutes.)
Lila, sitting across the aisle and clearly not doing her own work, leaned over until her chin almost touched the table. "He's looking over here," she hissed, her voice a sharp needle popping Sophie's bubble of concentration.
"He is not," Sophie countered, her heart immediately jumping into her throat. "He is studying the Krebs cycle. It's very complicated. He doesn't have time for peripheral vision."
"Oh, really? Then why did he just look up, scan the room, and stop exactly on your messy bun?" Lila smirked, a look of pure, mischievous triumph on her face.
Sophie's eyes betrayed her. She looked up.
Ethan was indeed looking in her direction. When their gazes met, he didn't look away. Instead, he raised a hand, a small, casual wave, just a flick of the wrist.
The world didn't just tilt; it did a full backflip. Sophie felt a rush of heat crawl up her neck. Her brain, in its infinite panic, sent a command to her arm: WAVE BACK. NOW.
But Sophie's arm was currently experiencing a technical glitch. Instead of a cool, casual greeting, she jerked her hand upward with the force of a catapult. Her elbow clipped her heavy plastic pencil case, sending it skittering across the polished wood of the table.
Clatter. Bang. Roll.
It sounded like a gunshot in the silent library. Pencils, pens, and three different shades of highlighters exploded across the floor. One neon-pink eraser decided to make a run for it, rolling directly under the table where a group of senior girls were studying.
"Oh god," Sophie choked out, diving out of her chair.
She scrambled on the floor, her knees hitting the hard wood with a dull thud. She felt like a frantic crab, grabbing at her pens. From her position on the ground, she saw a pair of sneakers move.
Ethan had stood up. He walked over, his shadow falling over her as she reached for a stray ballpoint pen. He knelt down, his movements slow and graceful, and picked up her favorite mechanical pencil.
"Everything okay?" he asked. His voice was hushed, suited for the library, but it had a playful edge that made Sophie want to dissolve into the floorboards.
"Uh… yeah! Totally fine!" Sophie said, her voice a bit too loud. She snapped her head up and nearly knocked foreheads with him. "Just… testing the structural integrity of the floor. With my supplies. It's a science thing."
Ethan chuckled softly. He handed her the pencil, his fingers lingering against hers for a fraction of a second. "Structural integrity, huh? You're very thorough, Sophie."
He stood up, gave her a small, knowing smile, and walked back to his table.
Sophie climbed back into her chair, her face a shade of red that rivaled the "Stop" signs in the parking lot. She stuffed her pens back into the case with trembling hands.
"See?" Lila whispered, appearing at her side. "That was a Moment. He helped you. He smiled. He thinks you're 'thorough'."
But the "Crush Brain" was already shifting gears. Sophie looked over at Table Four again. A girl from the soccer team had walked up to Ethan. She was pretty—the kind of girl who probably never dropped her pencil case. She said something, and Ethan laughed.
It wasn't the small, polite chuckle he'd given Sophie. It was a wide, easy grin. He looked comfortable. He looked… happy.
The "Flutter" in Sophie's chest was suddenly replaced by a cold, heavy lump. Oh no, she thought, her mind spiraling. He wasn't smiling because he liked me. He was smiling because I'm the 'Floor Girl.' I'm the clumsy entertainment of the day. He's laughing with her because she's normal. He's laughing AT me because I'm a disaster.
"Sophie? You're doing the 'doom-face' again," Lila noted, her brow furrowing.
"He's laughing, Lila," Sophie whispered, her eyes fixed on the way Ethan was leaning toward the soccer girl. "Look at him. He's being sarcastic. He's probably telling her about the girl who just tried to tackle her own stationery."
"What? No! Sophie, he's just being a person! People talk!"
"Not like that," Sophie insisted. The logic of the insecure teenager was ironclad. "That wave earlier? It was a pity wave. He saw me staring and felt bad. And now he's telling his real friends about the weird girl in the Sociology nook."
Every signal was being processed through the "Self-Doubt Filter." A smile wasn't a smile, it was a smirk. A wave wasn't a greeting—it was a dismissal. Sophie felt a wave of guilt and confusion. She had been so sure they were "making progress," but now, seeing him interact with someone else, she felt like an interloper.
She opened her French notebook and began to write, her pen digging deep into the paper.
Signals are confusing. He's nice, but is he 'nice' because he's a good person, or 'nice' because he's making fun of me? I can't tell the difference anymore. Everything feels like a test I'm failing.
Throughout the rest of the hour, Ethan looked over a few more times. Each time, Sophie caught his eye and immediately looked away, her expression cold and guarded. She wasn't trying to be mean; she was trying to protect herself. If she didn't look, she couldn't see him laughing at her.
Ethan's expression changed from amused to confused. He tilted his head, watching her for a second longer than usual, but Sophie was already buried in her Irregular Verbs.
When the bell finally rang, Sophie moved with the speed of a professional athlete. She shoved her things into her bag, not even checking if her highlighters were capped. She needed to get out before she had to face him.
As she reached the heavy library doors, a hand caught the frame above her head, holding the door open.
"See you tomorrow, Sophie," Ethan said softly.
He was standing right there. He looked at her, his eyes searching hers for a moment. There was no sarcasm in his voice. Just a simple, quiet acknowledgment.
Sophie froze. Her brain screamed: HE'S BEING NICE AGAIN! but her heart whispered: IS HE?
She gave a stiff, awkward nod. "Yeah… see you tomorrow," she managed to squeeze out. She didn't smile. She didn't look him in the eye. She just bolted into the hallway, her heart hammering a frantic, confused rhythm.
She leaned against a row of lockers, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps.
"Wow," Lila said, catching up to her. "You just gave him the 'Cold Shoulder of the Century.' What was that?"
"I don't know!" Sophie groaned, covering her face with her hands. "I don't understand anything! Was he being nice? Was he being mean? Why did he say my name like that? Why did he wait for me at the door?"
"Because he likes talking to you, you crazy person!" Lila laughed, shaking her head. "You are literally hallucinating a villain arc for him. He's just a boy who likes the 'Floor Girl'."
Sophie exhaled a long, shaky breath. Lila was probably right. She was probably overanalyzing every micro-movement until it became a conspiracy theory. But that was the problem with crushes—they turned your brain into a hall of mirrors. You couldn't see the truth because you were too busy looking at your own reflection and worrying if your hair looked weird.
"I'm a mess, aren't I?" Sophie asked.
"The biggest," Lila agreed, hooking her arm through Sophie's. "But hey, at least you're a thorough mess. Let's go get fries. You need salt and a reality check."
As they walked toward the exit, Sophie looked back one last time. Ethan was walking the other way, his backpack slung over his shoulder, tall and calm in the fading afternoon light.
She didn't know if she was reading him right. She didn't know if he was interested or just polite. But as the "Flutter" returned to her chest, stronger than ever, she realized she didn't care about the logic anymore.
She just wanted to see him tomorrow.
Even if she dropped every single pen she owned.