"I have more in the back. Come with me. The new arrivals are on shelf... It's just us here."

Shiori loved reading more than anything. Novels, manga, light novels, romance, fantasy — she consumed them all. While other kids played outside, she stayed in her room with a book. While other teenagers went to parties, she stayed in the library. Books were her friends. Stories were her escape.

She dreamed of becoming a librarian, of spending her life surrounded by the things she loved most. She chased that dream through school, through university, through exams and certifications. By the time she achieved it, she was already twenty-five. She looked up from her books and realized she had let life pass her by. She had no friends, no relationships, no one waiting for her at home.

Romance novels had taught her what love should feel like. But she had never felt it herself. She told herself it was too late. Her chance had passed while she was lost in other people's stories.

Then he started coming to the library.

He was still in high school. He came every day, sometimes staying until closing. Not many young people visited anymore. They preferred games, parties, phones. But he was different. He was quiet. He read everything — textbooks for his studies, novels for pleasure, manga for escape. Sometimes he smiled while reading, as if the story had reached inside him.

She noticed him. Then she watched him. Then she started arranging her tasks so she could pass by his table, just to see what he was reading. She peeked at first. Then she stole glances. Then she lingered.

They were the same, she realized. Both loved books. Both were alone.

He would sometimes fall asleep in the library. It wasn't allowed, but she made exceptions. Just for him. He wasn't sleeping because he was bored. He was tired. Exhausted from carrying whatever weight he carried alone.

One day, he slept too hard. He didn't wake up when the final bell rang. He didn't wake up when the lights dimmed. The library closed at eight. By eight thirty, she was the only one left.

She walked to his table and stood over him. His face was peaceful. His lips were slightly parted. His hand rested on an open book. She did not wake him right away. She stood there, watching him breathe.

Her heart tightened. Then it raced. Her cheeks grew warm. She touched her own face, surprised by the heat. She had never felt like this before. Not from any book. Not from any fantasy. This was real. This was him.

She finally touched his shoulder. Soft at first. Then firmer. He woke up slowly, blinking, confused. She told him the library was closed. He apologized and gathered his things.

She watched him walk toward the door. Then she followed him. Not to walk with him. To watch him. To memorize his route. She stayed far enough behind that he would not see her. She watched him turn corners, cross streets, walk up the steps to his apartment. She waited until his light turned on.

Then she went home. She wrote it all down that night. His address. The route. The way his face looked when he was sleeping.

That was the night she fell in love.