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honeychilialligator · 5 years ago

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The Comfort of Strangers

Gabe's POV

The first time I saw her, it was a Saturday - most likely in the middle of September, nine months ago in a public library, four blocks away from the building that I once inhabited.

Of all things to note, the initial thing that would flash was the day - always the same day. She probably wore an average sweater, and dark skinny jeans - a style I eventually noticed. And even without the glasses, I always remembered her even back then as nerdy, introverted and of course, bookish.

It was a school research that motivated me to visit such a weary place that I couldn't imagine ever stopping-over - not because I was allergic to studying (if anything, I don't mind reading books) but because the place in itself was a bore to look at. The library was Egypt's pyramid. Historical. Old. Ancient. Pick your term. There's a helpful thesaurus inside to help you in such a predicament.

Then again, the same reason has urged me to step inside the old-fashioned site. Mr. Lanburton (not sure if I spelled his name accurately), our history teacher, had loaded us a big stack of dreadful tasks to fulfill at the end of the weekend. Surprisingly so, my memory has reclaimed the thoughts of my heavy homework, to which my class was asked to recollect important historical terms of a long list of nearby places in the vicinity of our humble locale.

It was also the first time my best friend, Google, has disappointed me terribly for failing to deliver an automatic answer to my difficulties (Apparently it was not one of those "God bless the internet" days). Unfortunately our locality and its small populace were a little unfit for specific and in-depth information about what Mr. Lanburton had required.

As tempting as it was to abandon the task at hand, my grades in that semester was not as cooperative. It took me a week to recover on an illness that got me hospitalized for days and the teachers were not very considerate. The only option left for me was to take the route to the oldest public library in town and start a customary way of active research.

The heavy creak brought from the antique wooden door entrance unsurprisingly attracted too much attention in an almost-deserted library. I met her stare as she lifted her gaze - our first contact. Yet at that moment it seemed so ordinary - so unappreciated. I couldn't recall clearly what book she was reading or how she looked at me, no matter how hard I try, but I guess that's just how I will always remember her: the girl who always has her face trained on books in the old library.

At the end of the day I was happy for having the task lifted off of my shoulders three days before the original submission, and I also recalled that my parents treated me and my four-year old little sister in an expensive restaurant outside town. My mother bought me a black jacket that I remembered wearing the next day. That specific Saturday was special in ways that I could only fully realize now.

Visits to the library were followed by more when our history teacher realized how effective it was (for him) to leave advanced schoolwork for a progressive study on our next topics. More items were given that I had to reserve extra time to the library to fulfill the task every week. The second and third time I stayed in the public library, I sat three chairs away from her and maintained the same position for the week because it was nearest to the air conditioner and I was rather comfortable. The quiet girl maintained hers just the same. Each time we were near each other I was more intrigued about the novels she was reading and how she seemed to be unfazed to her dusty surroundings with a different book each time I came. By my fifth visit, I was able to comprehend a clearer assessment on her features when I snuck in a slight glance.

Evergreen - like spring. That's how I remembered her full bright eyes. It seemed enchanting now the more I think about it, as only a few people could possess such unique detail. Her cheeks are always flushed - it must have something to do with the cold atmosphere (but later, I realized she was always like that). Her slightly-curly hazel brown hair, she always secured in a careless bun. It was curiosity that compelled me to her - a teenage girl my age who would just spend most of her time reading classic novels in the stinky dinosaur-age public library instead of going shopping or doing whatever sassy teenage girls do. Does she even go to school? Is she constantly alone if she doesn't have anyone to hang-out with? Where does she live anyway? What's in these books -these novels that got her hooked in this place? Why can't she just borrow them and bring them home to read? Why here where everything is so grubby and old, I have to stop myself from sneezing when I get too close on a dictionary?

It started as a thought, which intrigued me, and then it changed into a deep curiosity that later became a sudden interest. She was not from my university, that's for sure. I would have known. I never bothered to ask because I was uncertain on her response. It was not my forte, conversing with the opposite gender. Back then I had a mental overview on how my conversation with her would be like. I just couldn't gather enough courage to start even a casual conversation.

Scanning through old textbooks, I'd sneak in a little look at her - I don't know why I did - I always felt like even through her solemn focus on the material she was reading, I've always imagined her noticing every slight glance I pass on to her. Having her around three chairs away from me every Saturday afternoon in the library eventually turned into something natural - like a schoolmate a table away from me in our usual place in the cafeteria. Without even speaking, I guess our positions were a mutual contract. Without even knowing it, my visits and these weekly tasks no longer bothered me as much as it did at first.

Finally, I devised a plan to get her attention (it didn't sound as creepy when I thought about it before). This peculiar bookworm returns the books to its shelf and leaves the place fifteen minutes less before I could finish my research homework. On a particular Saturday in October, I took notice of the exact bookshelf location she left her novel before she stepped out of the library. Coincidentally Mr. Lanburton was kind enough to lessen our burden with simple common terms to hunt and I was able to finish the task earlier than most. I took the book out of the bookshelf five minutes after she left. I tried considering asking the elderly librarian about the name of the girl (surely she knew about her only customer in ghost town's library) but for some reason I didn't pursue it.

The moment I glanced at the cover of the book I remembered thinking: "Nicholas Sparks. Well what do you know? I guess she is a romantic at heart."

"The Choice" by Nicholas Sparks.

Reading the synopsis was my last pull to borrowing the book and bringing it home. Alas, I have also read some of his passionate collections but it was my first to encounter this specific book. I started reading that night - continued and finished it the next day. It was compelling and I was hooked. I thought about how she could be feeling the same emotions that I was sensing as I read through Spark's masterpiece, and when I am overcome with extreme emotions in the climax of the plot, I remembered how I caught her wrinkle her nose as she read through all those literary pieces as if she was dismayed by the outcome, or how a trace of a smile would form on her delicate lips for a moment at the remaining pages of her novels; all the emotions rushing out of her when she reads - I realize how she understood all kinds of sentiments organized by the author or how she paints the characters out of her beautiful imagination.

For a regular guy who sees life as a featureless routine, she was remarkable.

The next Saturday, there were no tasks to accomplish, but I returned the book to the library. When I arrived, the girl was already sitting with a different (probably about another romance) book on our usual table as I had expected. I felt her eyes follow me when I returned the book that she read. After doing so, I returned to my usual chair, took a random book on her usual bookshelf and pretended to read it - hoping she would notice me again.

The bookworm cleared her throat. Twice (in the first, I was a little too overwhelmed to hear her). "Excuse me."

"Yes?" I must have smiled like a fool back then.

"Hi," she started nervously. "I just couldn't help wondering: what genre do you usually prefer? I mean if you don't mind." Wait, British accent?

The question initially confused me, but it made me more than glad to hear her talk. I answered her in way that might have ineffectually and failingly conceal my tense and awkward self. "I-I guess I'm more into Action, Sci-Fi. Those kinds of stuff." (Not really). "And probably a little romance would do." (A guy reading a romance novel? Can't you get any weirder? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid).

"I see," she spoke out the words slowly. "Action, huh? Specifically of Sylvia Day's?"

Her tone had demanded to alert me, as I saw her look curiously on the book on my hand. I quickly turned to the cover.

"Bared to You" by Sylvia Day.

Oh.

I slammed the book shut, not daring to behold a scene of its twisted plot. Funny, how I must have looked like to her: A perverted little maniac.

That's when I heard her laugh. I was unprepared for my reaction to the most potent weapon this girl had in her arsenal - a real genuine laugh that reverberated from inside her. It was too infectious for me to resist, and on an unguarded instant, I joined in.

Of course, the librarian shushed us out of it.

"I'm sorry," she blushed - adding more color to her flushed face, and apologized to the wrinkly old librarian.

"Look, I wasn't really reading it, I mean - "(What am I getting myself into?) "I was just scan- " The girl stifled a laugh. "I didn't mean it like that, I was just...just..."(Seriously dude, stop embarrassing yourself!)

"I'm Eveline," she offered, a bright and foreign (but genuine) smile on her face and an extended hand. "You are?"

A for being attentive. I just couldn't stop embarrassing myself, could I?

"Gabriel, 'Gabe' for short" I shook her soft, dainty hand. "Nice to (finally) meet you."

"Sorry if I disturbed you." Another short laugh.

"It's fine. I wasn't really reading it," I shrugged.

"I can tell," Eveline smiled - a sparkle on her emerald eyes. "I mean I noticed you were so out of it. I didn't mean to appear so despicable."

"It's okay, really. I don't usually read novels - especially this kind."

"You're usually on research and textbooks," she added gently, and I couldn't help but grin at the thought of her noticing me.

"Schoolwork," I supplied. "My history teacher keeps giving us a big load of homework every weekend."

"Ah, I see," she nodded in understanding. I waited for her to elaborate about her high school life or at least relate to me how her history teacher could be the same terror professor, but she didn't and our conversation fell short.

"Are you always hanging around here?" I probed further.

"Only on Saturdays and sometimes on Sundays," Eve caught a stray hair and pushed it on her ear.

"Always on the same schedule?"

She nodded cheekily, "Yeah."

Her enigmatic stance put me in place and I decided not to push my luck on her privacy. "Cool."

I looked at my wristwatch and realized that I was late for my sister's little rehearsal, knowing I had to pick her up after. "It was really great to see you, but I'm done with my work here and I need to fetch my sister out of ballet class." As much as I still want to hang around...

"I understand."

"So, next Saturday then?" I said a little too hopefully.

"Of course," she smiled her gentle smile.

That night I lay on my cozy bed thinking about our hilarious - though a little ungainly, dialogue. Eveline. Witty, cute, and bashful Eveline. Even when I decided to shut my eyes, I could see a picture of her perky face in her natural glow and hear the sound of her symphonic laugh. Since that day, thoughts of her became a frequent visitor and Saturday wasn't just any ordinary Saturday. Like a refreshing holiday, I was looking forward to it.

On our next meeting, I wore a navy sweatshirt and khaki shorts - turning my charm on like a light switch untouched for decades. I smiled brightly even before I could enter the library, wanting to match hers and hoping she'd return it. Eveline would be inside, reading a romantic novel, and I hope my smile would greet her. She was still selecting a book when I came in; her face lit up as she mouthed "Hello."

Instead of going my way to proceed on my research, I watched her pick a book or two in the shelf before taking my own set of textbooks to copy information. As I derived coherent notes on my notebook, I clucked my tongue twice in a playful way of getting her attention. From the corner of my eye, I saw her glance to my direction but I pretended to be so focused on my homework. I repeated it again, louder this time to also get the old librarian's awareness. The withered old woman looked around and turned on our table, confused at my mock innocence. She shrugged a little and went back on arranging the filthy pile of old archives. From the corner of my eye, I saw Eveline smile in amusement even without her looking at me.

I purposely sped up taking down notes for research in order to catch up on Eveline on her way home. I asked permission to accompany her and I was happy that she was fine with it. She owned an average bike for transportation and her street was 2 miles away from mine. I offered to guide her bike as a friendly gesture while we talk a little until we reached my apartment building.

"You're not as behaved as I thought you are," she teased lightly.

"You mean what I did to that librarian? Well at least she has someone to watch over. A little hobby might get her rusty old brain working a little," I winked and she laughed.

We shared jokes even though they were mostly mine. I enjoyed making her laugh and smile. I began talking about myself when we started sobering up; about my family, high school, my hunky best friend named Kevin, and my favorite sport, tennis. I casually asked her about her own share of the bargain and I was more than pleased to hear her describe a little more about herself. Financial problems had caused a temporary break for her education when her father was dropped out on his business firm. She didn't talk about her plans for the future which seemed odd when I think about how much I disclosed my desired career as an architect, but I still marveled at the way she talks about her present and how she sees her life like a ready canvass. She loved her parents dearly even if they couldn't give her siblings to take care of. Eveline had a little pet dog named Sponge, and he was her only best friend.

Little facts added to my little biography of her, and each Saturday I was determined to get closer to her as I know she was a keeper for a friend. It turned into a fantastic innocent habit. When Saturday comes, I'd still stay on my usual distance and she'd read books peacefully. I'd cluck my tongue like a little check-up call and she'd smile. We'd pretend we didn't hear anything when the librarian gets irritated, and we'd squeeze ourselves to hide a laugh. But still I was afraid of annoying her on her reading with my behavior so I'd stop and sneak glances at her instead. Overtime she started whistling, a sign that she wasn't bothered about my tongue-clucking at all. The first time she tried her 'notorious' act and the librarian glared at me accusingly, I bit my tongue so bad to conceal a hideous laughter and my stomach was aching, it was so hard to breath. On our journey home, I was able to make her play "20 questions" where we take turns in interrogations about ourselves. Each new detail was a new color to add to cluster of feathers she blooms each day.

By the time we agreed to meet up on days besides Saturday, I had nicknamed her "Eve" even when her mother calls her "Lynn". On our first "friendly" date, I took her to a little café and treated her with chocolate cake that she told me was her favorite. I bought her "Papertowns", a novel written by John Green, and she was so happy and giddy that Eve kissed me tenderly on the cheek; I wasn't able to hold a blush.

Even though I was afraid to admit it, when I was with her, it seemed it was worth doing all those normal things that normal people do.

She was amazing in ways that I couldn't describe. Eve could make simple seem complex. Everything about her had a deeper sense of sentimental value. There are certain ways only she can do that could make me immeasurably happy.

Eve had suggested I meet up with her on a night of meteor showers last December. It had been my dream rendezvous. As we sat there stargazing, I had took the book that we both loved from my sling bag, "The Choice" and read a little excerpt of Nicholas Sparks, one that I intended with meaning.

"It was inevitable for people to try to create a sense of normalcy in a place where nothing was normal. It helped one get through the day, to add predictability to a life that was inherently unpredictable."

She had listened with her eyes closed, lying on the evergreen grass that sent a neon glow to her emerald eyes.

"You've been quoting my books," Eve grinned, after a long moment of observing the distant, twinkling stars.

"Sadly, you've miraculously turned me into a bookworm like you," I sighed melodramatically.

"Well I never forced you to read them," she smiled.

"But there was no other way of getting your attention," I pouted, playfully.

"There was, you're just too dumb to try it," Eve laughed.

"Name one."

"I don't know, how about just a casual 'hi!'" she muttered sarcastically and I rolled my eyes. "You could also have tried asking me what I was reading. Did I appear that stiff to you?"

"To be honest, yeah" I said teasingly.

"Dud!"

"Nerd!"

Tickle fights are the usual aftermath of our casual bullying. How we managed to get that close so fast? I have no idea.

So yeah, we rolled off our butts in the prickly grass like it was no one's business. And after we finished laughing like hyenas and sobered up, we just lied there peacefully under the stars.

"Well I'm glad you did it," she suddenly brought up.

"Did what?"

"Read the book I mean," Eve chuckled.

"How come?" I arched an eyebrow.

"I guess there was no better way to get me to trust you." (She was serious, by the way.)

"Yeah, right" I smiled. "Starting a book club, eh?"

"You're my first member," she joked and we both laughed.

"You've put me in a lot of effort for just a simple conversation," I whispered.

"Nothing that's worthwhile is ever easy, remember that," she quoted a memorized sentence from the book that started it all.

It was her own happiness that did the trick: in her brilliant smile, in her adorable pout, or in the way she smudges ice cream all over her mouth, or how she falls asleep with her lips slightly apart, or how she seems so vulnerable and honest and kind that it would be a difficulty to stop the urge to wrap her in your arms and protect her. She was heavenly, but earthly in that amazingly complicated way.

Yes, indeed. I, Gabriel Felix, a plain average teenage boy who couldn't appear normal and comfortable with teenage girls, was falling in love with a bookworm. At that time when I came to terms with my little crush, I surrendered and didn't fight back. I didn't have anything to lose except for our strong bond and resilient friendship (that I couldn't imagine ever giving up). But knowing Eve, I knew it wouldn't take long for her to figure out about what I really felt. Being in love, I comprehended, was not about being concerned if she could ever accept your feelings and affections. It's more engrossed on ensuring the happiness of your loved one above yours, even if that took you out of the equation.

Every time I have these insecurities in my mind when I think about confessing, I replay all the moments we spend together inside or outside the library. The way she smiled made me feel like it was mutual, and I know I had to try; Eve was worth it.

So I decided to express my intense emotions towards her on our next meeting next Saturday, in the place where it all began - our sanctuary.

That morning I put on my favorite black jacket, and styled my raven black hair with gel. In the bathroom while having my shower, there was nothing else in my mind but on what to say and how to express it without her running out the door. I was nervous even though I've made up my mind.

I read through my lines and my cheesy quotes (obviously it's from the same book), knowing she'd appreciate it. I slipped further into my own fantasies, understanding that there was a big chance of rejection, but all I cared about was being close to her, keeping her. I wanted so badly to keep her.

By then I knew, the moment I stepped inside the public library - as I saw her empty chair, that a love like this was too good to be true.

When I arrived at her address, I asked around for her and she wasn't home - none of her family was. None of her neighbors knew where they went. I went to random places - anywhere where hope could blossom. I tried the café, Borders (her favorite bookstore), the central park, but I was chasing fiction.

I never felt more drained in my entire life the moment I reached home. I attempted to call her number but only voice message replied.

Days passed, and Eveline still remained as a haunting mystery. I didn't break my visits to the library even though it was already summer vacation - hoping she'd show up with her dazzling smile on a sweater shirt and black jeans and explain how she disappeared and I'd forgive her, then she'd reassure me that she'd stay.

I've had my heart broken by love songs and I've had my own share of repetitive and agonizing travels to memory lane. Theories crossed my mind but it was worthless when there is no evidence to support them. Five times - I think - did I visit her house, only to find it empty once again.

"Do you ever do this, you think back on all the times you've had with someone and you just replay it in your head over and over again and you look for those first signs of trouble?"

Why, Nicholas, are you a psychic?

Months passed; each day was a struggle on moving on - on filling this void in my chest whenever I see her empty chair on lonely Saturdays.

My own copy of "The Choice" had been repeatedly thrown off the wall but I still had no perfect reason to hate her - even more in forgetting her. And in doing so, I've shunned myself in taking chances in romance. The harder I wanted to forget the more I kept remembering.

"But things change. People change. Change was one of the inevitable laws of nature, exacting its toll on people's lives. Mistakes are made, regrets form, and all that was left were repercussions that made something as simple as rising from the bed seem almost laborious."

I was able to memorize this stupid passage from that stupid book the day I had given up in waiting for Eve to come back. It seemed pitiful, but there were things you couldn't prevent from spilling. But then maybe I deserved this much for being too attached and for trusting too much on our "mutual" contract.

Unfortunately again for me, I didn't also deserve a "goodbye".

Time did its magic - no matter how slow. I've tried smiling again, and I went back on track with my priorities. On my next semester, I did better and passed every subject. I've tried playing sports like football and I was busier every day.

But still life has a way of proving you wrong. Three days ago, another research came up that needed public library help. The thought brought back unwanted memories that I've tried so hard to ignore but it can't be helped. At the same time, I dared myself to go through this like a test - to prove myself that I've really moved on.

So yesterday I took a step inside the ancient place, purposely in the same time that I practiced my past routine. The librarian regarded me with a look, as she bent down her spectacles to observe me. I tossed her a smile as if we were old acquaintances and I wasn't sure if she could still remember me in the way she returned my friendly greeting.

I took the same old World History textbook, and sat on my old place. Turning the pages, I was suddenly aware of the seat three chairs away from mine. I felt a familiar ache in my heart as I took down notes.

This was too much, I shouldn't have done this.

The price of going back through everything was not worth the pain. I closed the textbook wearily and decided to leave at once, when I heard it.

A whistle.

As if it was a sound of a bullet piercing through my ear, I turned around, perplexed and slightly hopeful.

The librarian was looking at me, her hand on her mouth and a smile on her pale and bony face.

"Made you turn," and she laughed (although it sounded more like a witch's cackle) "I knew that would do the trick." She motioned me towards her, and as the confused bloke as I was, I complied (It's not like she's harmful anyway).

"Your girlfriend," the librarian muttered. "She came here a week ago."

"She's not my girl - Say what?" I think my heart just did a somersault.

"Between you and me, who do you think is supposed to be deaf?" the old woman laughed, betraying her age. "She left something - inserted it on this book," she took "The Choice" (the book that I borrowed) out from the drawer. "You teenagers seriously need to remember that a library is not meant for -"

"Did she say anything?" I cut her off impatiently, taking the book from her wrinkled hand.

The now-annoyed librarian shook her head no.

I removed the little piece of paper from the pages of the book and read the note.

You probably didn't expect an apology from me after I left you alone without any explanation. You didn't deserve it and there is nothing I could say worthy of your forgiveness. You can crumple this paper or forget me - I'd accept all of it. But even after everything that I did to you, it would be such a shame to say that I did it all intentionally.

But here is my explanation: I was dying. My cancer was spreading and an operation could only result to a fast demise or a little chance of survival. From the start I meant to keep this from you - after all, who would have thought that a stranger like you would mean so much to me.

Everyday I wither in the pity of those around me, when all I really want is to do more than just breathe - I want to live. That's why I read lives that have happy endings, something I thought I was never granted to have. It was a torture I designed for myself. At that time all I really thought about was that since this cancer started controlling my life, all I am allowed to feel was pain.

I noticed you long before you borrowed the book. In all honesty, I was just as nervous to talk to you as you mentioned to me. I thought it was a game, really, on who can approach who first. And I lost when you did the irresistible: taking an erotic novel and pretending to read it with an expressionless innocent face. That little encounter started all the hilarious jokes and the little dates. There was nothing wrong about your questions and little interviews but forgive me if I am so reserved (Yes, the reason why I didn't choose to finish school was because of my condition). You'd never think of me as the same bookworm in the library if I told you all of my secrets - specifically about Leukemia.

But we started to hang-out and I let it all happen. There was nothing more refreshing than taking your guard off and having fun. I don't know what made me trust you- maybe it was because you don't look at me with pity, or the way you made me feel safe or that you built up some hope in me. You were a constant reminder of who I can't and never have. But you were there, three chairs away from me, so close yet so far. Ever since I started getting to know you, all I wanted was to close the distance.

So I made a gamble with myself, to give this one last chance, if that meant I'd have an opportunity to have a future with you, even if all we will ever end up is friends. And I accepted the operation, provided with the risks. I couldn't explain everything to you before I'd undergo operation. What's the point of worrying you over something you can't control especially if I'd just end up dead?

God answered my prayers, and I was saved. I got my second chance and all I want to do is spend it with you. But that's your choice. I'll be right here waiting where the heaven's cried.

Love,

Nothing that's worthwhile is ever easy. I know Eve.

I know.

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