The library was quiet. Very quiet. Even the clock on the wall seemed to stop ticking — as if it didn’t want to disturb the silence. The air smelled like paper, dust, and something old and warm, the way forgotten stories smell inside old books.

Mari sat in her usual spot — the corner by the window, where the leaves outside moved in the breeze and the sunlight made soft golden spots on her notebook.

In front of her was a trigonometry problem. Beside it — her notes. And on the margin of the page — a tiny drawing. “Mr. Tangent,” with little bead eyes and a tongue tied into a knot.

She thought again about the person who drew that silly thing. Mari smiled. Just a little.

Not a full smile — it didn’t reach her eyes — but it warmed something deep inside.

“Thank you,” she whispered quietly to no one… and to someone.

Nick..... He was in her mind again. The whole day.

Some people had a date with their dream girl. Others had… tangents. Great life balance.

She tried to focus on the problem again, but the formulas slowly blurred into one long line.And in her head — an image: Nick sitting in a café. Smiling. Holding flowers. Saying something. Probably blushing again. Because that’s who he is. A romantic. Kind. Real.

Mari put her pen down and looked out the window.

Who even does that anymore? Letters. Flowers. Feelings. She wondered… could she ever have something like that?

A real story. With all the small steps. The silly ones. The honest ones. The beautiful ones.

Yeah, right, Mari. Keep dreaming.

She leaned back and let out a soft sigh.

Did you already forget what happened last time..?

The voice in her head whispered like someone flicking a light switch.

Her whole body tensed, tight like a pulled string. Her eyes changed too — a quick flash of memory, sharp and sudden.

She shivered.

“Okay, stop, Mari,” she whispered to herself. “What was that? Where did that even come from?”

First she calls him a handsome guy every girl would want. Now she’s thinking about how his date is going.

“Mari, don’t you think this is a bit too much? Slow. Down.”

Her thoughts felt like threads pulling toward him, even when she tried to run the other way.

She grabbed her notebook. Math. Formulas. Anything to keep her brain quiet. 

But her eyes slid back to Mr. Tangent. And this time — they stayed there. She covered her face with both hands and let out a sound:

“Uuuuaaaaa…”

The emotional cry of a whale who is done with life. 

The silence in the library shook a little. Someone coughed behind a shelf.

“Do I… actually like him?” she whispered from behind her hands.

Then, almost offended:

“Mari, are you serious? He’s totally out of your league… What are you even doing? Again…”

She lifted her head.

Her eyes went to the notebook — but she didn’t see math.

She saw Nick. The real Nick. His honesty. His love for music. His laugh. All the small things. Things that weren’t meant for her.

Thirty minutes passed.

Mari sat there, staring at the same problem, realizing she had read the same sentence three times already. Her brain refused to work. Because it had its own story playing in a loop.

And in that story… there were no tangents. There was Nick.

They were probably already sitting in the café by now.  She was smiling. He was talking about his keyboard. And she was impressed. Calling it romantic. And he was happy. Really happy. 

Mari felt something tighten under her ribs.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Don’t make stuff up, idiot. You don’t know what’s happening there. And you have no right to… feel jealous. You’re friends. Just friends.”

She turned back to her work. Pressed the pen harder than needed. Started writing the equation again.

Then she looked at her phone.

4:39 p.m.

Not even an hour. Maybe they hadn’t ordered yet. Maybe they were still getting to know each other. Maybe right now he was laughing. And she liked his laugh.

Mari sighed.

Put the pen down. Picked up her phone. Unlocked it. Opened the chat with Nick.

The empty message field stared back at her.

She typed: “So, how’s it going?”

…deleted it.

Typed again: “Hope everything’s going well!”

…deleted that too.

She set her phone down. Stood up. Started walking between the shelves. This felt strange. Too much. Not her place. He had the right to his own life. His own stories. Without her… hovering. She wasn’t his mom. 

But friends ask each other things, right? That’s normal. Just checking in. Just seeing those three little dots — the typing bubble — and knowing things were still the same.

She returned to her seat. Looked out the window. At the trees. At the soft evening light. It almost felt like the world was whispering: you’re allowed to feel important too.

Outside, the sky was getting darker. The lamp beside her left a warm yellow circle on the table.

The clock showed 5:31.

Mari finally broke. She opened the chat. Slowly, carefully, like it was something forbidden. And typed:

“How’s the date going?”

She stared at the screen for three seconds.

Are you sure?

Yes. No. But it’s too late.

It’s just a message. A small one. Shy. But for her… it’s like saying: "I’m still here. I’m thinking about you. I care."

She pressed send. Placed the phone next to her. The screen went dark.

And Mari looked back at her notebook — the equations already meaningless. All she could do now was wait. Not for an answer. But for a little bit of relief.