Chapter 48 Chapter Forty-Five
{Days Later}
Demi's point of view
The library is supposed to be quiet.
That's the whole point of it. Rows of shelves standing like soldiers, the hum of the lights overhead, the soft scratch of pen against paper, pages turning like whispers meant only for themselves.
It's designed to swallow noise, to flatten chaos into something manageable.
So it really shouldn't be this loud inside my head.
I sit at one of the long wooden tables near the back, the ones people don't usually choose unless they actually mean to work.
My backpack is on the floor at my feet, unzipped, notebooks spilling out like I dumped my brain onto the table and hoped something useful would crawl free.
My laptop was opened. My textbooks, spread wide. My notes, stacked, color-coded, highlighted, meticulously prepared.
I did everything right to be productive.
Except for the part where I can't stop thinking about Chris.
I rub my face with both hands and exhale slowly, forcing myself to look back down at the page in front of me.
Some kind of formula stares up at me, smug and meaningless.
I read the same paragraph again, then again, and none of it sticks.
‘Focus Demilade’
‘Just focus’
I chanted in my head
I tap my pen against the table once, then stop when a girl two seats over shifts and glances my way.
Right.
Quiet space.
“Sorry” I mutter an apology she probably doesn't hear and still my hands by lacing my fingers together.
The problem isn't that I don't want to study.
The problem is that every time I try, my brain immediately reroutes to memories I didn't ask for.
Chris leaning against my bedroom doorframe like he owns the place.
Chris's laugh when I tell a stupid joke.
Chris's voice low and close when we're sneaking around like idiots.
My mind goes back to the cinema and when we got back home and he had me on all fours begging for my life.
It’s like over these past months we’ve completely forgotten that we were best friends.
And the worse of it is that best friends don't usually do this.
Friends don't usually learn the exact sound you make when you're trying not to be heard.
They don't memorize the weight of each other's bodies, the timing of footsteps in the hallway, the way to freeze instantly when a door creaks.
They don’t immediately get goosebumps when the other is close by or when they hear the other’s voice.
They don't keep secrets like this, not the kind that sit warm and dangerous under your skin.
And yet here we are.
I glance at my phone, even though I promised myself I wouldn't.
No new messages. That's probably for the best.
If he texted me right now, I'd be done for.
I'd pack up, lie to myself about ‘just taking a break’ and end up somewhere I shouldn't be.
Like my own house, with the door locked.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second.
This is why I'm behind. This is why I'm here instead of home.
Because somewhere along the way, Chris stopped just being my best friend and started being a distraction I couldn't shut off.
And it's not his fault.
Not really though.
I mean, it's not like we didn't both agree to this.
No labels. No talking about it. Just..whatever this is.
Sneaking around, acting normal in public, pretending nothing's changed when everything has.
But knowing that doesn't make it easier to concentrate.
I finally force myself to start writing, copying notes from the textbook into my notebook just to feel productive.
My handwriting starts neat, then gradually devolves as my thoughts drift. I catch myself doodling in the margins, not even consciously.
When I look down, I've written his name without meaning to.
Chris.
I cross it out hard enough to tear the paper.
Great.
I lean back in my chair and stare up at the ceiling, jaw tight.
I shouldn't let this mess with me like this. I should be better at compartmentalizing.
Chris does it effortlessly.
He can joke with me one second, sit across from me at dinner like nothing's weird, then be gone before anyone notices.
Me? I come undone in a library.
I gather my notes into a tighter pile, like organization might magically fix my head, and flip to the next chapter.
I read the heading. I underline it.
I pretend I'm absorbing information instead of counting the ways this whole situation could implode.
Because if anyone finds out-
I don't finish the thought.
The chair across from me scrapes softly as someone sits down. I don't look up right away.
Libraries are communal spaces. People come and go. It's not him.
It can't be him.
I keep my eyes on the page until a familiar presence settles into the silence, something I can feel even without looking.
A weight. A warmth. A shift in the air that doesn't belong to strangers.
My heart stutters.
I swallow and finally lift my gaze.
And everything I was trying so hard to keep contained immediately threatens to spill over.
.
.
.
Chris point of view
Demi's house smells like coffee and lemon cleaner, which meant Angel-his sister- was still around, she loves drinking coffee and she always used the lemon cleaner whenever she visited, she said she loves the smell.
It's weirdly comforting, even though he's not here. I step inside and shut the door behind me, rolling my shoulders like I'm not already nervous.
Which is stupid.
I've been coming over here forever. I've eaten at their table, sprawled on their couch, borrowed chargers and blankets and dumb stuff like I'm part of the furniture.
There's nothing suspicious about me showing up on a random afternoon.
Except for the fact that lately, everything feels suspicious.
"Hey, Chris" Demi's mom calls from the kitchen before I even say anything. "You're here early"
I wince internally. "Yeah” I nervously chuckled, “Uh. Is Demi around?"
She pokes her head out, smiling in that way that makes me feel both welcome and twelve years old. "Library. He said he needed to catch up on studying."
Of course he did.
There's a flash of guilt I don't quite know what to do with.
I know I've been part of the reason he's behind. I know that every time I show up unannounced or suggest ‘just hanging out’ it's never just that, it always ends up with him bent over or his legs behind his ears.
"Right," I say, nodding. "That makes sense."
His dad appears behind her, drying his hands on a towel. "You should be proud of him. He's been really responsible lately."
Yeah. Responsible. That's one word for it.
"I might go meet him there," I say, trying to sound casual. "See if he wants company."
They exchange a look- the kind parents do when they're silently evaluating whether you're a good influence. After a beat, his mom smiles again.
"Just don't distract him," she says lightly.
I laugh. "I'll try."
I leave before my face gives me away.
The walk to the library is short, but my thoughts make it feel longer.
Every step, I replay the last few weeks in my head. The late nights.
The whispered conversations. The unspoken rule that we don't talk about it during the day.
It was supposed to be simple.
Except Demi has never been simple. He overthinks everything.
He feels things deeply, even when he pretends not to.
And lately, I've noticed the way he hesitates more, the way his smiles don't always reach his eyes.
I tell myself I'm going there to check on him.
Not because I miss him.
Not because the idea of him sitting alone in the library makes my chest feel tight.
The library doors open with a soft whoosh, and the familiar quiet wraps around me instantly.
I lower my footsteps automatically, scanning the room.
It doesn't take long to find him.
He's at one of the back tables, surrounded by books like he's built a fortress out of obligations. His hair's a little messier than usual, and he's chewing on the end of his pen- a habit I know way too well.
For a second, I just watch him.
He looks tired. Focused, but strained. Like he's holding himself together with sheer willpower.
I walk over and pull out the chair across from him, sitting down slowly.
When he looks up and sees me, his expression flickers through surprise, relief, and something softer that makes my chest ache.
"Hey" I murmur.
And just like that, the library isn't quiet at all anymore.