Noah

The Library Window Every afternoon, after the final bell, Mia slipped into the quiet corner of the school library. It wasn’t just the books that kept her there—it was the window seat. From it, she could watch the soccer field where practice was held, and, more importantly, where Noah played. Noah wasn’t the captain or the star, but he always played like every pass mattered. He’d stay behind after everyone else left, practicing alone until the sky turned pink. Mia admired that about him—the way he cared without needing anyone to notice. One rainy Tuesday, the library was nearly empty. She was sketching absentmindedly when the seat across from her scraped back. Noah stood there, hair damp from the storm, holding a book he looked a little embarrassed about checking out. “You’re always here,” he said, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Mind if I sit?” Mia’s heart stumbled, but she nodded. At first, they sat in silence, the only sound the rain against the glass. Then, slowly, they started talking—about books, about the game, about nothing and everything. She learned he stayed late on the field because he wanted to play in college someday. He learned she wanted to be an artist, though she never showed anyone her drawings. Day by day, they kept meeting at the window. Sometimes they didn’t even talk—they just existed side by side, sharing the quiet. But each time, the space between them felt a little smaller. One evening, the rain stopped just as the library closed. They walked out together, the smell of wet grass heavy in the air. At the steps, Noah hesitated, then looked at her in that way that made time stretch.