《The Librarian》 The Librarian Preface Before you begin reading this story, there¡¯s something important you should know about it: This is not a love story. Prepare to be deceived by the words that you perceive. Any words that you read in this story could potentially be a lie, yet the lies that you¡¯ll read are the ones that make the story possible. Tell me, do you believe in love, or is it just as fantastical as worlds where Queens ride dragons, orphans become wizards, or rubber boys become pirates? We¡¯ve become so used to the fictional type of love that we place too many expectations on its true form. Unlike our one, the Greeks had multiple words for love so that it could be expressed better. Ag¨¢pe: an empathetic love towards humanity for those who love strangers, nature, and giving to them. Invert that, and you¡¯ll find a misanthrope who scorns the world along with the people who live in it. This along with philautia (self-love), are the rarest forms of love that I personally see in the world. You can call it what you want, but I see a world of people who are too afraid to love themselves, and thus are unable to find ways to love others, or the very world they live in. It¡¯s okay to love it. If it weren¡¯t here, then you wouldn¡¯t have the opportunity to find those that you love, whether they¡¯re friends or more. Ludus: the playful and flirtatious love filled with infatuation. The crush you have that may or may not last for long, but you nevertheless enjoy. You don¡¯t truly think that it¡¯ll last forever, but the drug-like rush you feel around your crush is enough for you to fall into that familiar heart-racing hand-shaking pattern we¡¯re all too familiar with. It can lead to heartbreak after heartbreak, and for some, it can tear them to pieces. I know it has for me. It breaks us, yet we continue to chase love, even if we must take small breaks in-between. Maybe we all secretly desire pragma (a committed, passionate love) with another person that¡¯ll last for longer than one page in the story of our lives. Eros. Lust. Sexual desire. Passion. You want more than to just be around them, or maybe there¡¯s a complete lack of romantic attraction. You want them physically, and this thought affects you when they¡¯re on your mind. You may desire a kiss, or a hug that morphs into something more¡­ primal. This passion is what¡¯s kept our species alive, and there¡¯s nothing wrong with feeling what you may feel for someone. It¡¯s even better when they feel the same way. Philautia: loving yourself. The Greeks had two versions of it, just as we do. There¡¯s the version where you as a person appreciate all the amazing things you offer to the world, then there¡¯s the selfish version where your self-love is so dangerous that it¡¯s akin to pleasure. This philautia can lead to narcissism, and it¡¯s the type that so many people are afraid of. Don¡¯t be afraid to love yourself in a world where self-hatred is the norm. Everyone nowadays wants to find that spark that makes them feel special compared to others, so what¡¯s wrong with letting your spark be the love you have for the person you see in your mirror? Philia: an intimate yet authentic friendship. It¡¯s a genuine relationship where you want what¡¯s best for the other person. This type of love can be felt with your romantic partner as well, but it doesn¡¯t happen as often as the world wishes it would. Having both a best friend and a lover in one person seems like a dream to many, and it takes a long time to both find that person and make it to that point in your relationship. Even so, just having someone who cares about you deeply, whether romantic feelings are involved or not, can make the world just that much easier to live in. Storge: the love you feel for your family, or the allegiance you feel to a place or organization. We¡¯ve all seen those sports fans who would go to war for their team, or those people who give appreciation for the country or town that they¡¯re from. Who would¡¯ve known that there was a word for that too? It¡¯s not romantic, nor do you feel a friendly bond with the entity you feel storge for, but you know when it¡¯s there. You hate when that team loses, and you feel happy when your home does something right. If you have people you call your family, there¡¯s that innate affection you have for them, along with pain if they do something akin to betrayal. Familiar people and places give you this feeling of love. It¡¯s comfort in its purest essence. Pragma. Commitment. Respect for one another. It could be the flaky nature of dating in the modern era, but it¡¯s finally been proven that ghosts are real, but not in the way you may have imagined them as a ghost. These ghosts enter your life, giving you hope that despite the boundaries, the two of you will be together. You ignore the fact that they¡¯re already dead, along with other dangerous signs. When they finally move on to haunt another person or home, you berate yourself over the fact that you were willingly blind for that period of time. The ghost may have been in your life for minutes, days, or even months, but these ghosts are why so many people don¡¯t stay together, and why there are people who don¡¯t believe that they¡¯ll last long with another person. Pragma is the kind of love that lasts until death. It may have started off as ludus, and after you grew to know them better, it morphed into philia, maybe with a hint of eros on the side. Days turned into months turned into endless jokes and memories together. The passion that once was settles into comfort and familiarity, and the storge you feel for your family and extended family now applies to your partner as well. Then finally, when all is said and done, you live the rest of your lives with the pragma you¡¯ve been swimming in for who knows how long now. This is not a love story. This is a story about what love was, is, and could be. ag¨¢pe Sometimes, I dream about escaping to another world. Escapism is not a new concept, yet it¡¯s been on my mind lately. The thought that keeps me tethered to the ground is how, despite those being borne of my imagination, I¡¯m never the protagonist of my late-night ventures. It¡¯s something that¡¯s been bothering me over the past few nights. I¡¯ll stay up for hours and hours wondering why, if I¡¯m not in control of my waking life, then what logic keeps me from being the one in charge of my fictional one. Lost in thought about this topic, I accidentally got on the wrong bus while leaving work. Without a care, I sat near the back of the bus. There were people around me wearing masks, headphones, and other signs that they didn¡¯t want to speak to others. It was heaven if you were in an asocial mood, and it was perfect for someone like me whose mind was always lost. Getting further and further from my destination, the bus stopped in front of a building I¡¯d never noticed nor paid much attention to in my adult life. Adorned with a large clock, a two-story library stood tall near the corner of this street. It was in dire need of maintenance, but not enough to warrant demolition or a complaint to the city. The bricks had weathered somewhat, and after further observation, I noticed that its clock was permanently fixed at six o¡¯ six. The parking lot had a single vehicle parked in it: a navy blue sedan that had seen better days. Librarian Only, it read. Upon closer inspection, a small ¡°s¡± after ¡°Librarian¡± had been scratched out. For a moment, I wondered why. I had no reason to press the large red STOP button. Nothing was forcing me to leave the bus and walk towards the library. It was a day dedicated to questioning both myself and the actions I was making, it seemed. I hadn¡¯t taken the time to sit and read a novel since middle school, after all. Once high school, college, and the trials and tribulations of adult life became the norm, reading for leisure became second to coming home and resting before settling back into the monotony that had become my life. Compared to the warmth outside, the inside of the library made me regret not wearing more layers. The building felt nearly abandoned. To the right of me were glass stairs that led to the second floor of the library, and the circulation desk to the left of me was vacant. At the desk, I found a sheet of the library¡¯s hours. It closed at six, only twenty minutes from now. I¡¯d use my time wisely and explore what I could. Before me were rows upon rows of unused computers and empty chairs at desks, with each chair I counted accenting the emptiness that lay around me. My footsteps echoed at every step, and the silence nearly felt peaceful to me. I had grown so used to being stressed that I¡¯d forgotten how serene a quiet place could be. Despite how it looked on the outside, the inside of the library was immaculately clean. I deviously reached for the top of a bookshelf. Not even the faintest trace of dust was on my fingers. Even the individual books were missing those little devils that loved to rile up my allergies. I took a deep breath and smiled in appreciation of this oasis I had stumbled upon. I was certain now that this would not be my only visit. As I walked further into the library, the silence was broken ever so slightly. Someone else was here, and I could hear the soft sound of their breathing. Following the sound, I found cubicles presumably for studying or doing work, sorted in groups of four each. In one, the source of the noise lay sound asleep. Hunched over with her face burrowed into her arms like a student giving up on staying awake, the woman¡¯s light breaths echoed throughout this corner of the library. Next to her was a phone with a timer, set to go off at six. If I stayed for the next three minutes, what reaction would she give me? Was that a strange thought? My curiosity was strong, but not strong enough to warrant being labeled a deviant when meeting someone for the first time like this. I made my leave, but not without turning around one last time to look at her.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°Thank you for taking such good care of this library.¡± I said this and walked away, hearing a phone¡¯s default alarm as I went through the library doors.

?? Coming back the next day, I saw her at the circulation desk. My guess was correct. The sleeping woman was the librarian here. Unlike her previous visage, she was glancing down at a book with a smile, letting out small chuckles as she turned to the next page. She couldn¡¯t have been any older than 25. I made my way over to the desk. Like a siren, she allured me. Subconsciously, I started to walk towards her. My footsteps must have shocked her with how she jumped and looked at me. The light I¡¯d seen in her deep blue eyes vanished, leaving me with a cold stare reminiscent of the library itself. Thinking more, my first guess about her age may had been wrong. I could sense the countless stories burrowed in those eyes of hers. Happy ones, sad ones, and ones too personal for others to hear. Maybe I was the one who was dwarfed in age. Contrasting her frigid expression, the curly blonde hair lightly touching her shoulders was held up by a small hairpin of a black cat. ¡°Can I help you?¡± Her voice shocked me back into reality. I had no valid reason for coming to this library other than for the atmosphere. ¡°I was curious about the library, so I came inside.¡± I could feel her holding back a glare. ¡°I see.¡± Her eyes seemed to analyze whether or not I was telling the truth. ¡°Were you the one who visited yesterday as well?¡± I slowly nodded, making eye contact with her. ¡°Sounds like I¡¯ve been caught red-handed.¡± ¡°There are other libraries you can visit.¡± I understood where she was coming from. The library may have been beautiful on the inside, but most people here judged books by their cover. This seemed to apply to the libraries that housed them as well. ¡°True, but those other libraries are loud and have a lot of people.¡± I revealed a sliver of my true intentions. She raised a brow at me, testing me. ¡°You don¡¯t find it strange to be alone?¡± Silence grew between us as I carefully thought about my answer. Solitude and loneliness were a natural part of my life, regardless of the people I¡¯d gotten to know. Shallow friendships to acquaintances I didn¡¯t have much in common with, my life had been filled with social interactions that were done to conform to what most saw as normal. Nowadays, I speak to one or two people I¡¯d known during my years in school, and the relationships I had at work were superficial at best. I was constantly surrounded by people, smiling and even laughing with them, yet this internal loneliness was a constant. ¡°It¡¯s hard to find something like that strange when I¡¯ve grown comfortable doing it.¡± The corners of her mouth almost lifted into a smile with that comment. ¡°You¡¯ll rarely see other people here.¡± Her words weren¡¯t as sharp this time, and her eyes softened ever so much. ¡°I think it¡¯s nice to be blind for a season.¡± The librarian paused at my words. ¡°Then I hope you enjoy your time here, sir.¡± I couldn¡¯t help my next words. ¡°Might I ask for your name?¡± ¡°I¡¯m in no need of a name.¡± She said this and returned to her novel, muttering to herself, ¡°I doubt you¡¯ll be here long enough to warrant needing to know it.¡± I wanted to speak more with her, but at heart, I knew that was the end of our conversation. For just a moment, I caught a glance of the woman behind her stiff mask. My curiosity flared up again as I walked towards the cubicles where I first saw the librarian. I sat in the chair beside the one she¡¯d once been resting in and grew lost in thought. So lost that I didn¡¯t notice myself falling asleep. In the dream, I wandered through an empty city. I walked past abandoned cars making traffic with no movement, and buildings with not a lit room to be seen. With no one there, I had no responsibilities weighing me down, yet the loneliness inside me was amplified. I thought I had grown used to this feeling. I would always tell myself to stop getting close to people because people disappoint you. It only makes sense to stay away from them. That way, you won¡¯t be disappointed in anyone. If that were true, then what was this hole doing in my heart? Starting from my fingers and toes, my body became sand blowing away in the wind of this empty city. I was scared of it reaching my head, depriving me of my senses. Was I going to die here? Would there be anyone to miss me? As these thoughts pervaded my mind¡ª ¡°The library is closing.¡± I looked above me to see the librarian staring down at me. I quickly checked my face for drool and stood up, saying, ¡°I should¡¯ve kept better track of the time.¡± The librarian¡¯s face changed from one of annoyance to one of what seemed like worry. ¡°Do you need a tissue?¡± ¡°A tissue?¡± I said, confused. ¡°What for?¡± ¡°I saved you from a nightmare, it seems. Your eyes are red, and I can see the streaks where your tears once were.¡± She grabbed a handkerchief from the pocket of her purse. ¡°Even now, you¡¯re still crying.¡± I couldn¡¯t accept her favor. It was embarrassing to be seen like this. ¡°I have to go. The library¡¯s closing after all.¡± I grabbed my things and tried to walk away, but the librarian pursued me until she was by my side. Her look of genuine worry caused me to hesitate leaving. I heard her take a deep breath. ¡°If you want to leave, that¡¯s your decision. Otherwise, I¡¯m willing to be an ear for you if you desire company.¡± I stopped walking. Without turning around, I responded. ¡°I¡¯ve never been the type to complain about my problems to others. I hate being seen as someone pitiful.¡± ¡°It would be hypocritical of me to pity someone who faintly reminds me of myself. I detest those who drown in self-pity, so know that I would never pity you.¡± Her familiar sharp tone had returned, but I could tell she was telling me the truth. ¡°We¡¯ve only just met. Why should I confide in a stranger?¡± I had no reason to trust her, but I was also curious about her reasoning for saying these things when she¡¯d been so cold earlier. ¡°The tears you shed would never have fallen if you¡¯d already confided in someone you were close to.¡± She spoke as if she knew me, and that triggered an anger I didn¡¯t know I had. ¡°How do you know if I haven¡¯t already?¡± I still hadn¡¯t turned around to face her. I wasn¡¯t sure if I could. This stranger was verbalizing parts of me that I¡¯d only discussed with myself during rides home from work. It felt like a gross invasion of privacy. ¡°I don¡¯t know, but your reaction speaks volumes.¡± I was speechless. ¡°I may not know you, but you appear to be someone who isn¡¯t happy with their life. I do not know what kind of work you do, if you¡¯re a father with a wife and children, or if you¡¯re simply just lonely. With the exception of my job, you also don¡¯t know if I go home every night to a loving husband I feel guilty for having, or if I lie alone in bed counting the amount of times I¡¯ve had my own heart broken. I know you as well as you know me, and the answer is none.¡± She said one final comment to me before going silent. ¡°I want to know your story.¡± Minutes passed by before I could gather the courage to respond to her. She was more patient than I¡¯d initially given her credit for. The memory of that dream and the thoughts I¡¯d had were still vivid in my mind. Ahead of me, I had a very risky gamble. What would I look like, confiding in a librarian instead of a therapist? I¡¯m not close enough to people to have others judge me for this, but I know that no one judges you harder than yourself. It was a risk I was afraid of taking, but I couldn¡¯t forget how I felt when I saw her laughing. The way my feet moved on their own, the joy I sensed from her, and most of all, my dangerous sense of curiosity. I turned around and faced her. She¡¯d only been a few feet away from me, staring up at me. Waiting to see what I¡¯d do. Despite being shorter than me, her presence and aura alone demanded respect, so I gave that to her. ¡°Instead of talking about my life,¡± I said, ¡°I¡¯ll tell you a story about a man, his thoughts, and the empty city that inhabits his surroundings.¡± Hours passed before we finally parted ways. I gave her details about the dream as a way to open up without getting too personal. I say that, but she was able to work out many of the details. Maybe it¡¯s a trait she¡¯s gained from being around so many books. Regardless of what happened today, I still wanted to return to the library the next day. If I thought about it, I could turn this into a routine. For once, I went home looking forward to the day that came next.

?? The next day at work didn¡¯t feel as heavy as the previous one. The bus ride to the library felt quicker than the two that came before. My heart began racing as I made my way through the doors. Once again, at the circulation desk, a woman of unknown age sat there, smiling at yet another book she was reading. I didn¡¯t get to see her smile during our long conversation last night. Thinking more on it, I was the only one that spoke about myself. If we speak again, will that change? And so, with that same siren-like pull, I found myself walking towards the desk, and unlike last time, Her smile didn¡¯t disappear when she looked at me.