The old library wing was barely used anymore - a forgotten floor with dusty shelves and windows that filtered the sunlight into golden beams. It smelled like old paper, floor wax, and time.

Lianne sat alone at the end of the long wooden table, her heart racing louder than her thoughts. She had gotten there fifteen minutes early - just in case. She told herself she wouldn't wait long. She told herself it wasn't a big deal.

But everything about it felt like a big deal.

This wasn't just curiosity anymore. This was him.

The boy who watched in silence. The boy who copied her words not to deceive, but maybe... to connect. The boy whose name was now folded inside her notebook like a secret wish.

She kept looking at the door.

Empty.

Still empty.

Then - footsteps.

Slow. Hesitant.

She held her breath.

Callan stepped inside like he didn't belong. His white uniform was slightly wrinkled from the day's duty, his ID swinging from his chest. He looked around - not like he was lost, but like he was afraid to be found.

Their eyes met.

Something sharp and warm lit inside her chest.

"Hey," she said, too softly.

He stood by the doorway, his hands behind his back like he wasn't sure if he should run or stay. "You left a note."

"You've been leaving me notes for weeks," she said, tilting her head. "So I guess we're even now."

Callan let out a breath - it sounded like relief and fear rolled into one. "You found out."

"I knew before I knew," she admitted, her voice a whisper now. "But the letters made me feel like I was dreaming. You made me feel..."

"Like you mattered?"

Her chest ached at the way he said that. Like he meant it more than anything he'd ever spoken aloud.

She nodded. "Exactly."

He took a step closer, but didn't sit. "I never meant to make it weird."

"It's not weird. It's just..." She looked at him, really looked. "Why did you use my handwriting?"

Callan rubbed the back of his neck, his ears tinged with red. "Because I didn't know how to talk to you. But when I saw your notes - the ones you left in the library books - it felt like I already knew you. Like your words were already the things I wanted to say."

Lianne's breath hitched.

"I guess I thought... maybe if I used your words, your style, your rhythm... maybe you'd hear me better."

"That's kind of unfair," she whispered.

"I know."

"But also kind of... beautiful."

He looked up then, eyes wide.

She swallowed the lump rising in her throat. "You didn't borrow my handwriting just to get my attention, did you?"

"No." His voice was low. Steady. "I borrowed it because I thought yours was too beautiful to ignore. And because I'm scared I'd ruin it with mine."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, slowly, Lianne stood from her chair, walked up to him, and held out a pen.

"Write," she said.

Callan blinked. "What?"

"In your handwriting. Just once. Something real. Something from you."

He hesitated - but took the pen.

She handed him her notebook. He flipped to the next clean page and stared at it like it was asking him for more than words.

Then, with trembling fingers, he wrote:

"This is the real me. Still quiet. Still afraid. But I'm here - if you'll still have me."

His handwriting was messy. Slanted. Uneven.

But it was his.

And she'd never seen anything more honest in her life.