God, four classes already? Where did the time go? Marisa barely noticed the time until the bell rang, announcing the lunch break.

In the school cafeteria, she grabbed a quick bite—a sandwich, not the tastiest, but at least warm. After wiping her hands with a napkin, she headed straight for the library.

The history essay wouldn’t write itself.

Marisa walked the familiar hallways, her gaze brushing over the crowd of students. Blue totes, black backpacks, brightly colored messenger bags… but not a single gray one. Not a single familiar face.

Maybe I imagined the whole thing? The bitter thought stung, but she pushed it away, gripping the strap of her bag more tightly.

She entered the library. The library was dead quiet—you know, that weird kind of quiet where you feel like you have to whisper.

Carefully placing her bag on a chair by the window—where little sunbeams danced across the glass—she wandered between rows of bookshelves. Her fingers slid along the spines, searching for the volume she needed for her essay.

Meanwhile, Nick stepped out of his classroom, heading straight for the library with determined strides.

The entire day had felt like walking on needles—he tried focusing on his lessons, but his mind kept circling back to the letter. To the girl who held his fate in her hands.

Just a little longer, Nick reassured himself, though his chest tightened with the same nervous anticipation.

For Nick, the library was a sanctuary. It smelled of old books, wood, and a hint of dust—the kind of scent that calmed his soul and let him forget his worries.

To distract himself, he decided to look for his favorite book—Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. That worn-out copy had carried him countless times into worlds of courage and adventure.

 Nick pushed the door open gently. The soft glow of the lamps spilled across the room, throwing warm light across the shelves packed with books. And then—his eyes landed on something familiar.

A gray bag. The gray bag. Resting quietly on a chair by the window, like a beacon in this sea of books. His heart was absolutely going crazy.

She’s here. She’s somewhere close.....

Nick stepped forward…

But where was the girl herself? His eyes darted anxiously across the rows of shelves, searching for the one person he longed to find.

Marisa stepped out from between the shelves, balancing two heavy books in her arms. Sunlight poured through the library windows, turning everything this warm, golden color that felt almost too good to be true.

Her eyes froze on the red-haired boy in the orange hoodie. He was standing right by her chair… holding a gray bag. The same kind of gray bag. For a heartbeat, she couldn’t move. Her chest tightened; her heart hammered like it wanted to push her forward. It’s him. It has to be him—the mysterious N. I’ve been looking for all day.

Gathering her courage, she walked closer, careful as if she might shatter the fragile moment just by speaking. Her voice came out soft, almost a whisper, as she tilted her head toward the bag on his shoulder.

 “Hi… I think that’s actually mine.”

 A thousand words rushed through her head—questions, excuses, explanations—but she just stood there, gripping the thick books to her chest, staring at him with eyes the color of the ocean.

Nick looked up at her. For a second, his green eyes widened, disbelief flashing across them. Then, slowly, a hesitant smile tugged at his lips.

He pointed at the other gray bag resting on the chair.

“And this one’s obviously mine.” His voice was low, rougher than usual, as if caught between nerves and relief.

 They swapped bags super carefully, like they were doing some kind of spy thing or something. Nick turned, already taking a few steps toward the door. But then—he stopped.

Everything felt thick and awkward between them.

He swallowed hard, forced himself to turn back, and his voice came out hushed, almost breaking:

“You… you read it, didn’t you?”

Marisa froze. Her fingers clenched around the strap of her bag. Yesterday she had rehearsed explanations, ready to make it all sound simple. But now, with him standing there—so raw, so exposed—every word jammed in her throat.

She nodded slowly.

“Yes… but not on purpose. I was only trying to find the owner. I thought it would… help.” Her voice trembled despite her effort to sound steady.

Nick’s gaze dropped, a blush creeping to his ears. His next words sounded almost like a plea.

“Please… don’t tell anyone.”

 Marisa shook her head instantly, her answer sharp, sincere.

“I won’t. I promise.”

She wanted to add more—something like there’s nothing wrong with having feelings—but Nick had already turned away, nodding slightly as if to close the subject. He walked a few steps, stopped again, his pulse thrumming against his ribs. This was so awkward. But he couldn't just walk away.

He spun back around, drew in a shaky breath, and extended his hand.

“By the way… I’m Nicholas. Nick.”

Marisa nodded, her hand trembling slightly as she reached out in return.

“Marí,” she said softly.

Nick’s lips curved into a small grin, half-teasing.

“I know your name.”

Her eyes widened. In an instant, the memory of her math test came rushing back—her papers, her handwriting.

He went through my stuff too?!

Her face went hot. God, she was so embarrassed she just wanted to disappear - anything to avoid looking at this redheaded kid who'd somehow crashed into her world.

But Nick, as if sensing the panic in her, spoke quickly.

“If you want… I could help you with math.”

Marisa froze, unsure if she’d heard him right. Help? Nobody had ever offered her something like that before. Her gaze searched his face, suspicious, cautious.

What’s the catch?

 Nick saw her tense up and put his hands up slightly, like he was trying not to spook her.

“No catch. Really. I just like helping. And your test…” he trailed off with an awkward shrug, “let’s just say, it looked like you could use some backup.”

 He hesitated, then added with a crooked smile:

“But hey—if it makes it easier, we can call it a deal. You keep quiet about the letter… and I’ll help you survive math.”

 Despite herself, Marisa’s lips twitched. A faint smile broke through, uncertain but real.

 “Okay,” she murmured.

 It was strange—unfamiliar—but not entirely unpleasant.

 They agreed to meet for an hour after classes in the library.

 Marisa gathered her books, checked her bag (everything was there—notes, papers, math exercises, safe at last) and, feeling a little lighter, slipped out of the library.

 Nick stayed behind, standing in the golden light streaming through the tall windows. He wasn’t sure what had just happened—if it even counted as progress—but his heart felt strangely warm.

 He'd never let anyone see that side of him before. And she hadn’t laughed. She hadn’t judged.

 It felt weird. Uncomfortable. Exposed. But also… damn good.