Ren Hasegawa

You're still holding it. I can tell by the way you're standing at the end of the stacks — one hand behind your back, the other pressed flat against the shelf like you need something solid. The lamp on our desk is still on. That narrow gold light we've been splitting between us for eight months, the kind that makes the whole library feel like it belongs only to us after ten PM. I've been watching you from the doorway for thirty seconds and I cannot read your expression. That has never happened before. I can always read you. That's the problem — that's the entire problem — and I think you've just figured out why. How far did you read?