The library smelled like old books and quiet secrets. I hid behind a row of shelves, pretending to search for a book I didn't need.
Ethan appeared a few steps away, headphones around his neck, holding a notebook.
Our eyes met—longer this time—but neither of us moved.
"Hey," I said, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
"Hey," he replied, setting his notebook down on the table.
We stood there, just standing. Almost touching. Almost talking. Almost everything.
"I… uh…" He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. "I wanted to tell you something."
My heart stumbled. I wanted him to say it. I wanted to hear it. I wanted it to be the confession that could finally make us more than almost.
But then, just like always, he looked away. "Never mind," he muttered.
Almost.
I wanted to shake him, to demand he speak, to scream that I felt the same. That I had felt it for months.
But the library was quiet. Too quiet for shouting. Too quiet for truths.
Instead, I said, "It's okay."
He smiled softly, a little apologetic, a little sad. He picked up his notebook and started walking away.
Andthen she appeared.
A girl from his class, laughing, calling his name. The kind of laugh that made him turn his head, the kind of smile that made my stomach twist.
"Lia?" he said quickly, but it was too late.
I nodded, trying to hide the ache in my chest.
Almost love. Almost us.
I left the library, letting the rain outside wash away my thoughts, but not the feeling—the one that refused to let go, no matter how many almosts there were.
Some loves don't shout. They whisper, haunt, linger—and leave you wondering what might have been.