And yet, he found himself there anyway, standing in front of the bookshelf like some lovesick fool who didn't know how to let go of a moment.
The book was still there.
His fingers hovered over the spine, his pulse steady but sharp. It was ridiculous how something so simple—words on a page, a reply that wasn't even spoken—could feel like it mattered so much.
But it did.
He pulled the book free, flipping to the place where their words lived.
"Maybe I did."
Oryn exhaled, something unsteady unraveling in his chest.
She was admitting it, then. That maybe she had needed this, too. That maybe this wasn't just curiosity or boredom or some fleeting amusement.
That maybe it meant something.
His pen felt heavier than usual in his hand as he pressed it to the page.
"What are we doing?"
It wasn't a question meant to scare her away. It wasn't meant to make her stop writing.
But it was real.
Because this was starting to feel like something that could slip past the boundaries of paper and ink.
And Oryn wasn't sure what to do with that.
He closed the book, sliding it back into place.
Then, without thinking, he turned—
And nearly collided with someone.
A girl, coffee in hand, dark curls spilling over her shoulders, eyes sharp and amused.
"Oh," she said, stepping back. "Sorry."
Oryn blinked. "It's fine."
But the way she was looking at him—like she had noticed something—put him on edge.
Had she seen him writing?
She tilted her head. "I haven't seen you here before."
Oryn resisted the urge to correct her. He had been here before. More times than he cared to admit.
Instead, he shrugged. "I come in sometimes."
She smirked. "For the coffee? Or for the books?"
He hesitated. "Both."
Her eyes flickered to the bookshelf. Then back to him.
"I'm Noa, by the way."
Something about the name tugged at him, but he didn't know why.
He nodded. "Oryn."
Noa's gaze lingered for a second longer than necessary. Then she smiled. "Well, Oryn. Enjoy your coffee."
And just like that, she was gone.
Oryn exhaled slowly.
Something told him she wasn't going to be a one-time encounter.
Lana stared at the words.
"What are we doing?"
It shouldn't have made her stomach tighten.
But it did.
She traced the ink absentmindedly, fingers brushing over the words as if she could feel the weight behind them.
What were they doing?
A part of her wanted to ignore the question. To pretend this was just some harmless back-and-forth, a fleeting thing that didn't hold weight.
But she felt it.
She had felt it since the first letter.
And now, she had to decide.
She tightened her grip on her pen.
Then, carefully, she wrote:
"Does it matter?"
She closed the book, pressing her lips together.
And when she turned around, Noa was standing there, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.
"So," Noa said. "When were you going to tell me you met a guy?"
Lana nearly choked. "I—what?"
Noa smirked. "Tall. Dark hair. Looks like he probably reads broody literature in dim lighting."
Lana's heart stopped.
"Wait—you saw him?"
Noa's grin widened. "Oh, honey. I met him."
Lana felt dizzy. "No."
"Oh, yes."
Lana pressed her hands to her temples. "This is not happening."
"Want to know what I think?" Noa asked, tilting her head.
"No," Lana said immediately.
Noa ignored her.
"I think he knows who you are."
Lana's breath hitched.
Noa grinned. "And I think you know it, too."