If he looked up

He never looked up

Not when the library doors creaked open Not when chairs scraped against the silence. Not even when I started sitting closer than I needed to.

It was like the world above his book didn't exist..only the pages, only the words, only whatever universe he kept escaping into.

And me?

I became part of the background I wasn't supposed to be in.
I noticed everything about him anyway. The way he wore his favourite black kurta, sleeves folded neatly at the wrists, a simple watch resting there like time itself had agreed not to disturb him. The way his presence didn't demand attention, yet somehow held it all the same. The way his silence wasn't empty...it felt heavy, meaningful, like something I wasn't allowed to interrupt.
I told myself it was nothing.
Just another boy in a library. Just another face I happened to see too often.
But people don't usually start caring this much about someone who never even looks up.
And that's where it began.
With him not looking.
And me slowly forgetting how to look away