Why would she stay in the library?

As I gaze over, my curiosity piques. She sits across from me, engrossed in a book. Her fingers delicately flip each page as if it were a rare treasure. 

I admire her composure and her beauty takes me away. She has neatly tied her hair up in a ponytail. A golden necklace glimmers softly in the light around her neck, adding to her radiance.

However, every so often, she pauses, her eyes glistening with a faraway look. She sits intently, her mind actively engaged with the new information she comes across.

Or maybe, something else is troubling her, and the reality of it keeps intruding on her peace. Regardless, she seems to take it all in stride, never once revealing her innermost thoughts to anyone. This amazes me.

She has cute eyes that sparkle like gems and a smile so enchanting.

She’s lost in the world of her book, a fantasy land where anything is possible.

Her smile reflects the joy she feels within. But just as quickly as it appeared, her smile fades. I can’t tell why, it’s really hard to read her. 

Suddenly, she raises her head, and I quickly avert my gaze, afraid that she may sense my scrutiny. The school library is eerily silent, a testament to the fact that exams are over.

I ponder why she would choose to come here, of all places, on a day like this to lose herself in a book. 

In a world of endless possibilities, where the pages of books come to life with just a click of a button; you can cozy up in your bed, sip your favourite coffee, and immerse yourself in a digital world of words. Why choose to come to a deserted library, to take in the smell of old books? 

But then again, maybe that’s the whole point.

The library is a haven. A place where one can escape from reality and immerse oneself in the world of the written word. 

Despite the peaceful demeanour she exudes, there’s something about her that screams class and sophistication.

Surely, with her connections, she could be doing something more glamorous, rubbing shoulders with high-profile individuals. 

I suddenly notice that she’s acquired a new possession, a pink-covered journal with creamy pages. She holds it tenderly, as if it were her most prized possession. 

Her thoughts are a mystery, and even as she writes in her journal, I wonder what memories the book has evoked.

Are they happy or sad? I long to know more about the novel she’s reading, but all I can discern is the name Michael, the author’s first name.  

As I’m positioned at the library seat close to the window, diagonally to her left side, she looks fiercely protective of her thoughts, words, and feelings, and it’s evident that getting to know her will take more than a fleeting glance.

I’m so curious to read the words she’s penning in her journal, to catch a glimpse of her innermost thoughts and emotions.  

It’s not just her access to the finer things in life that draws me to her, but her appreciation for the simple and the old. While everyone else is glued to their screens, lost in the monotony of global village culture, she stands out like a beacon of hope. 

Not once did I see her tethered to her phone, lost in the abyss of social media or the latest viral video. No, she seemed liked the one to prefer the peaceful ambiance of long walks, evening dates, and watching the sunset.

Maybe that’s why the library calls to her, a place where she can nourish her soul and embrace the beauty of days gone by. 

My phone starts ringing, and I reluctantly realize that it’s time to leave the library. I can’t help but wish I knew her name, so I could make all sorts of assumptions about her based on it.

Would her name reveal whether she’s a spoiled brat Gen Z or a struggling Millennial? And what about the title of the book she’s reading; perhaps that would give me an insight into her deepest fantasies. 

I do know that her favourite colour is, pink, but that’s hardly enough. I’m filled with an intense desire to talk to her, to hear her voice, and to hold a conversation with her.

I want to know what makes her tick, what she likes, and what brings her joy. Simply admiring her beauty is not enough; there’s so much more to her than meets the eye. 

If only I could ask for her number, I might be able to unravel the mystery that is her. But I will come back tomorrow, I don’t mind waiting for her to show up.

Maybe I’ll send a smoke signal or blow a trumpet, anything to grab her attention. After all, mother-nature seems to favour her, and maybe she’ll connect us like two puzzle pieces meant to be together.