Little instances of disruption to my day occurred every now and then, though often not as drastic as what happened that Thursday.

As I headed up the library steps on Friday morning, iced coffee in hand, anger still escaping my body from the fact some other man decided to take the spare seat next to me this morning on the bus, manspreading like the bench was his, a part of me was sure everything would be back to normal once I rounded that corner. That yesterday was merely a blip in my week to be sent to the land of memories to never be recovered.

But as I did step into my favourite section of that library, my eyes immediately seeking out my spot, my feet came to a sudden stop just like yesterday.

Though this time, instead of being washed with rage, my heart gave a flicker of delight and one slight smile coaxed its way onto my face, giddy to see the boy with the blue eyes once more.

It had only started with a look... with a mere attraction to a stranger.

As I took in the way his brown locks formed perfect spirals as gravity pulled them downwards, I already knew then that I didn't want to talk to him. I didn't want to even know his name or start any form of friendship.

I just wanted to sit there in his presence, reading our novels, knowing that someone in this vast city knew I existed.

Though my peace of watching him lasted only a few seconds, my eyes getting carried away in taking in his posture and mannerisms before his blue gaze flickered upwards.

At once though, heat slammed through me. Gaze averting immediately, heart thrumming in my chest, my confidence waned as I quickly shuffled forward, taking a seat at yesterday's table, begging internally he wouldn't say anything... that he would have already looked away.

I set up my station with haste—hoping, pleading, that the routine would ease the discomfort.

Notebook in the middle. Pens to the right. Pencil case to the left. Laptop to the front.

Until I braved another glance upwards.

His head rested on his hand, eyes still looking into me. The intensity of his stare electrocuted my heart into a faster than normal rhythm.

Then the corners of his mouth turned upwards, like he knew what was going on inside my body. Like he liked knowing I was succumbing to those stupidly beautiful blue eyes.

But he couldn't possibly know.

Breaking eye contact, I jumped to my feet and headed into the shelves, beginning to hate that I was evidently crushing on this stranger. Because I knew it was irrational. I didn't even know the first thing about him. And now that he was noticing my stupid infatuation, it didn't feel like my little secret, like something I could just incorporate into my routine.

Nonetheless, I couldn't deny that I felt so alive for the first time in a long time.

Gazing along the spines, the titles finally distracted me from the circling thoughts, dragging me back into my research. For a moment, as I reached the dead end of the aisle, I finally forgot about him, adding numerous books to the stack in my arm, just like the routine managed to do for me yesterday.

Though as I turned to head back the way I came, my step faltered for the second time today.

Because, at the end of the aisle, head lowered, he was peering across a row of novels.

Shit, was all I managed to think before I determined that I just had to make it back. I just had to get the routine going again and everything would be fine...

Taking a deep breath and turning my eyes downward, I walked quickly back towards my desk. But as I scooted behind him, another book suddenly plopped on top of my pile, bringing me to a pause.

Hesitantly, I craned my neck at him, the waves of blue crashing and calming all at once.

"That's one of the better books on witches," he said, voice musical in quality—delicate and fragile as it moved through the air with purpose.

"Thank you," I breathed.

"You're welcome, Olivia," he replied.

But as I walked back to my desk, feeling like a bashful high school girl at the fact we exchanged words once more, an ignored truth finally began to dawn on me: he knew my name.

After sitting down, my eyes shot back to his desk, desperate for answers.

Yet it was empty.

His books were gone.

Again, he had left.