Chapter 7 — The Story That Knew My Heart
The library was nearly empty, holding its breath in the quiet afternoon.
Save stepped inside with the softest of footsteps, his bag slung across one shoulder, clinging to the last warmth of the sun outside. Inside, it was dim and dust-sweet. The light filtering through tall windows painted sleepy golden stripes across the floor.
He didn't know why he came here today.
He told himself he was looking for a new book to read — something light, something that wouldn't echo too loudly in his chest. But even as he walked past rows and rows of worn spines, he knew better.
His fingers trailed across the shelves as if one of them might reach out and stop him.
His eyes weren't looking for titles. They were searching for distraction. For silence. For stillness.
For anything that wasn't them.
Because today, Por hadn't sat with him at lunch.
And today, he saw Auau smile at Por in the hallway, soft and warm like they had their own language. A smile Por returned.
Save had smiled too — politely, a little tightly.
He had laughed at the jokes. He had nodded at their stories.
But then he'd slipped away.
And now here he was, standing in the corner of the library where no one usually looked — where the shelves were older and the books forgotten.
That's when he saw it.
A book with no name.
Its cover was deep green, cracked like dried leaves, with gold threads curling along the edges. He tilted his head. He had never seen it before.
Drawn by something he couldn't explain, Save pulled it from the shelf and walked to the little reading nook tucked behind the archives — his favorite spot.
He sat, legs crossed, heart quiet.
The book fell open on its own.
As if it had been waiting.
> "There was a boy with winter in his eyes."
> "He was not loud. He did not burn. He watched."
> "He watched a boy who laughed like spring — bright, reckless, golden. And with him, always, was the boy of summer. The one with sunlight on his skin and rainclouds in his breath."
Save's breath caught.
The descriptions whispered too close. Too familiar.
He read on.
> "The winter boy felt it bloom quietly. This... ache."
> "It wasn't jealousy. Not really. It was something quieter, like a wish left in a drawer. Like a song hummed into a pillow."
> "Because the spring boy and the summer boy kept finding each other. Again and again. And every time, the winter boy helped them. Watched them. Held the pieces they left behind."
He stared at the page, motionless.
His heart began to beat faster.
This story... it felt like his skin. Like his breath. Like every thought he had tried to fold away.
Was this about Por?
And... Auau?
Was he the one in the background? The one quietly folding paper cranes out of his own feelings, just to see them smile?
He kept reading.
> "The winter boy told himself he was not the main character. That his place was in the margins. That his feelings were a soft, passing thing."
> "But feelings do not pass. They stay."
His throat felt dry.
He closed the book, gently, as if any sudden movement might cause something inside him to crack.
He sat there for a long while.
Listening.
To his own breath.
To the dust settling around him.
To the sound of pages turning somewhere else in the library.
When he finally stood, the weight in his chest hadn't disappeared — but it had shape now.
He carried the book back to his table, slipping it beside his untouched notebook. His hands moved on their own — opening a textbook, flipping pages — but he couldn't read anything anymore.
And then, through the glass walls of the library, he saw them.
Por and Auau.
Sitting outside on the courtyard bench.
He stood there, eyes fixed on them — their laughter, their ease, their closeness. It wasn't the way they smiled that hurt. It was the way they didn't even notice he was missing from the picture.
He returned to his seat like a ghost wearing a school uniform. No one seemed to notice the way he clenched the edge of his desk or how his gaze kept drifting toward the windows, far from any textbook. The magic book was still in his bag, heavy with words he hadn't finished.
He packed up quietly when the bell rang.
By the time he stepped out into the corridor, the world was quiet. Students hurried past, chatting and joking, but their voices blurred into noise. His legs moved without thought, leading him down the familiar path toward the school gate.
Outside, it had begun to rain. The kind of rain that soaked through slowly, like time.
He didn't run. He didn't open an umbrella. He let it fall — cold against his skin, as if the sky was crying on his behalf. Somewhere along the path between the school and home, the rain and the silence cracked something inside him.
And tears fell.
Not loud, not with sobs. Just quietly. Like his whole heart was water, and it was finally overflowing. He didn't know why — or maybe he did. Maybe it wasn't just about the story or the book. Maybe it was everything. The quiet watching. The quiet loving. The quiet never being chosen.
He didn't notice the figure waiting under the school's middle gate.
"Oi! You're walking like a sad ghost in a drama!" came a voice — cheerful, teasing, familiar.
Pajti.
He was holding a half-eaten snack in one hand, drenched halfway from leaning out to call him. But when Pajti saw his face, he stopped mid-bite.
"…Hey," Pajti said again, softer now. "What's—"
And then, without a word, the first MC dropped his bag, stepped forward — and just hugged him. No warning.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't thought out. His hands gripped Pajti's back tightly like something was slipping, and he had to hold onto someone.
Pajti froze for a second, surprised — and then slowly wrapped his arms around him. The teasing left his tone completely.
"Hey… you okay?" he whispered.
No answer.
Just quiet tears.
He cried like someone who had been silent too long. Like someone who never gave himself permission to be sad. Pajti didn't ask questions. He didn't make jokes. He just held him, rain and all, like a best friend who knew when not to speak.
After a long moment, Pajti pulled back slightly and looked at him. "You're soaked. You look like a wet cat. A very depressed wet cat."
The first MC let out a tiny breath that was almost — almost — a laugh.
And Pajti grinned.
"There it is," he said. "Still alive in there."
They stood there for a while longer before walking home together — in the rain, but not alone.
---
They walked slowly, side by side, Pajti still saying silly things now and then, trying to lighten the air. And though the rain hadn't stopped, something inside him had. The storm — the one inside his chest — had quieted.
When he finally reached home, clothes damp, hair stuck to his forehead, he sat down on his bed, pulled the magic book from his bag, and stared at it.
He hadn't read all the pages.
There had been more.
But he couldn't bring himself to turn them. Not yet.
Because what if the story ended the same way he thought it would? What if he was right? What if he was always just… the boy who watched?
He placed the book back in his bag without opening it.
And for a moment, he sat there, feeling everything and nothing all at once. His heart was still hurting — not like a wound, but like a quiet echo. A reminder that he could feel deeply, even if no one else ever noticed it.
The story inside the book had felt too familiar.
Too close.
Too much like him.
And still, some part of him whispered… there might be more.
He didn't know what the rest of the pages said.
He didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
But tonight, under the hum of his bedroom light and the soft tapping of rain on glass, he let himself feel — truly feel — for the first time in a long time.
And that, maybe, was the beginning of something new.
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— End of Chapter 7 —