The black-clad man's slim, muscular silhouette is sharply outlined by the light streaming in through the large, arcaded window, his white hair almost glowing as it reflects the fading rays of the sun. He takes a few books off the cart to place them in the gaps between the books on the shelf. His movement is continuous, yet unhurried. Rather, it is measured. I can see the deep respect he has for his work. His long fingers grip the covers loosely, as if he fears his touch might damage the old, weathered copies.

Not like my parents, who throw them on the ground and kick them without a remorse.

Like they did to me.

I am overwhelmed with pain. My gaze clings completely to this stranger, as if the mere sight of him could make my past unhappen. My consciousness is filled with his broad shoulders, his narrow hips, his strong arms. He is packing. Puts one book after another in its place. The pain in my chest gradually dissipates. It's as if he's putting my shattered soul back together with the books, strengthening my hope that I'm not the only degenerate monster in the world.

Déjà vu comes over me.

It's the first time I've seen him, where does he look so familiar? The black outfit, the long white hair...

Of course! Metamorph's elf warrior!

No way... My cheeks heat up with recognition. Suddenly it occurs to me that who knows how long I've been staring at him. I quickly take down a book and pretend to read, but he's so immersed in his work that he doesn't even notice me.

I push my glasses up.

Yes, exactly like him. Except he's not wearing armor. It's better that way; his tight black turtleneck lets me see the rise and fall of his abs with each calm breath.

How many times I've watched this character for hours, longing, wondering what it would be like to snuggle up to him, to touch him. I imagined her strong arms holding me safe from my parents' war.

And now here he is. In a library. With me.

As he moves on to the next row, he gets out of my sight. I instinctively move with him. I take down a book again.

Communication and body language.

I really am lost, yet I don't regret it.

I pick up the book, absorbed in the stranger's harmonious being, the play of light on his long hair. His face is symmetrical, proportionate. His steps are flexible, yet confident. He knows exactly what he is putting where and why, never wavering for a moment, never turning back. He's a determined, independent man who is satisfied with his work and himself. Someone I can look up to. With him, I'd never have to be afraid again. My heart fills with warmth.

He's moving on. So do I. Another book.

Evolution and Taxonomy of Terrestrial Plants - I open it with trembling hands, pretending to read.

The tiny vestige of my common sense beckons me to put it back and leave, for what I am doing is vile and indecent. But I cannot. Towards him, I feel a strong attraction like never before. Every cell in my body trembles to be one with him.

It's as if he just senses it, moves towards me.

Maybe he's just packing up this way, or maybe he's going to someone else's... I look around quickly, but there's no one here.

He's coming to me.

I have to get out of here. Now.

Come on, move!

But I just stand and watch. He's getting closer, gifting more and more tiny details to my aroused imagination. Neat and elegant. Not a hair on his turtleneck, not a dandruff, not a crumb, as is usual with dark clothes. Just as perfectly black as his eyes. That calm, understanding look... I want to be lost in it foreverlooms over me. As he blocks the light, his shadow falls on me. My heart has never beaten so fast.

“Hello.” His deep voice shivers down my spine, the hairs on the back of my neck rising with desire.

“Can I help you with anything?” He smiles. Not with cold politeness, like the people who usually work here, but with sincerity. As if I really matter.

I can feel my panties getting wet. I squeeze my trembling legs together, even though I want to open up to him more than anything.

“N... no, thank you.”

Did I really say that?

Of course. A flawed, abnormal girl like me doesn't deserve a nice smile or any help. I'm waiting for him to turn around and walk out on me.

But he doesn't. Glances at the books in my hand:

“Classical architecture, psychology, taxonomy...”

Oh, my God, I took all this off and forgot to put it back?

“I'm interested in many things.”

Especially in you.

I gulp with a dry throat.

“Actually, I was looking for Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. I couldn't find it where it used to be. But I came across these and I couldn't resist.”

What am I saying?!

“The youth section was moved to the ground floor in June.”

Seeing my uncertainty, he adds:

“Come, I'll show you.”

As he walks past me, I am hit by the scent of his perfume. Sweet and spicy. Cinnamon, cardamon, cedar. A sense of peace and security spreads through me.

“Of course you can wait here, I'll be happy to bring it up for you.”

I realize that I'm still standing in one place, so I hurry after him.

I've been following a lot of people in my life. Trailing my dad on hikes, Mandy in the mall. I could barely keep up with them; with my short height, my fatigue, I was a constant burden. This man is also taller than me, by a lot, and though he never once looks back at me, he steps half as much as his stature would allow. It's as if I belong to someone. To him.

The thought is mesmerizing. Just like his long, shiny hair. I watch as the strands separate in a perfect arc, then touch his back with every step. I'm amazed that it's so neat, even at the end of the day. Shining in the off-white glow of the lamps like the natural, healthy hair of shampoo ad models, never subjected to the damage of dyeing or bleaching. Which, of course, is impossible. Especially since his eyebrows and eyelashes are black.

As the minutes tick by, the hypnosis of the rhythmic undulation dispels my logical thoughts. I no longer care what makes it so beautiful, only to be able to touch it. How would it feel? The way he leans over me while his hair falls forward? On me, around me, on my body?

I come to when he bends down and takes the book I came for off the shelf.

Even kneeling like this, he reaches my breasts.

I blush.

How high would I reach for him in the same position? I want to get this nonsense out of my head, but the more I try, the more it gets stuck. That's not even the most disturbing thing, but that I would be willing to actually kneel down in front of him. Gladly. I wouldn't mind if he doesn't even touch me, I'd be honored if he would just let me to...

“Here.” He holds the book out to me.

His hand is even more attractive up close than from a distance. It's like something out of an anatomy book. His almond-shaped nails are even, short curves framing his long fingers, his skin is fair and smooth. As I take it, I shiver so that I involuntarily touch him.

I wince and drop the book.

How can I be so clumsy?! I burn. With shame and desire at the same time. Quick as lightning, I bend down and pick it up. For a moment, our heads are on the same level. Wish I could kiss him...

“Thank you!” I mutter, and hurry away.

I run through the corridor, I don't stop until I reach the bathroom. I slam the door behind me, not giving a damn about the silence of the library. I drop the books on the hand-washing counter and lean against the cold  sink.

I stare into the mirror. My face flushed, I gasp for breath. My panties are so wet, it's like I've been watching porn. Am I soaked? Luckily I'm alone, so I quickly run my hands down my trousers. It's dry.

What the hell has gotten into me?

His hand... It was a split second, yet I relive it over and over again. Big, warm, silky, firm. The kind of hand that's not hard to imagine would be there to protect me forever.

He’d reach under my shirt…

I wince down there. Desire sweeps through me with intense, unquenchable agony. The open door of the nearest toilet tempts me to lock myself in and...

I wash my burning face. The cold of the water sobers me up a little.

He is a stranger. A complete stranger. Older than me, by a lot. Thirty, maybe. He must have someone; a mistress, a wife, a family, a child... And I'm only eighteen in a month... I'm reading young adult books. And then... I have Bill.

Who I've never spoken two words to and never even touched.

My hopes are shattered, replaced by bitter, grinding pain. Loneliness. Shame.

Not even a nerd of my age wants me. Because I am not enough. Fat. A nobody.

My neck tightens with a stifled cry, a silent, inarticulate howl of helplessness.

This is reality. The unvarnished fact from which I escape again and again into books and erotic videos. Into my imagination.... Because life is too horrible to exist in.

Still…

That one second...

In vain I try to suppress it, in vain reason and utter hopelessness... I want nothing more than to touch him again.

And I hate myself for it.