MISTER LANE

I wanted to disappear.

All eyes were on me, but it was his that made my skin prickle. The man in the suit—the one from the principal's office—was now standing at the front of the classroom like he belonged there.

But he didn't. Not to me.

This was sacred ground. And I had a feeling he was going to ruin it. 

For me.

His name was written in confident strokes across the whiteboard

Mr. Lane

Of course. Of all the places in the world he could be—he had to be here.

"Miss Thornhill," he said, not unkindly, but without warmth. "Nice of you to join us."

Laughter bubbled up from the usual corners of the room—Ruby Dean being one of them, obviously.

I clenched my fists under my sleeves, counting to three before moving again. I have made it this far. 

I wasn't about to crumble over a few snide chuckles and a cryptic man in a too-perfect suit.

Glancing sharply, I choose a seat in the back, near the window. Safe. Out of focus. That's where girls like me belonged.

"Today," Mr. Lane continued, "we begin our unit on confessional poetry. Our first focus—Sylvia Plath."

The marker squeaked as he scrawled her name in bold across the board. My heart skipped, for a second I lost focus, almost tripping myself. 

Another round of laughter follows, it seems like everyone's eyes are still on me. Who could blame them? I used to be like them, carefree and nonchalant. Not anymore.

That's what happens when you get stripped of your innocence. Now I felt bare and dirty.

He turned, eyes scanning the room,

Earning silence,

pausing—lingering—for just a moment on me.

"She's not an easy read," he said. "She's sharp, unfiltered, and often brutally honest. But there's truth in her pain. And for some of you… maybe that's exactly what you need."

That last line wasn't just hanging in the air. It was pointed. Aimed. Loaded. At me?

I sat up straighter, unsure if I wanted to throw something or thank him.

He read aloud:

"Dying

Is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well."

A silence fell.

The words echoed inside me like they'd been pulled from my own chest. That was Plath. Brutally elegant. And for a moment, I wasn't just a student in a classroom—I was a girl remembering the feel of her own breath against darkness.

Mr. Lane looked at the class. "Thoughts?"

No one spoke. Of course not. Who could touch something so raw without cutting themselves?

Then his eyes found mine again. This time, he didn't look away. "Cassey?"

My name sounded like a challenge from his mouth.

I hesitated, then swallowed. "She writes like she's trying to bleed out the poison."

Mr. Lane didn't flinch. He nodded. "Exactly."

And for a split second, it felt like there was no one else in the room. Just the girl trying not to shatter and the man who saw right through her.

************

The scent hit me first—aged paper, dust motes, and that faint trace of lemon-scented polish the janitor used too generously on the wooden tables. I paused in the doorway, letting the quiet settle over me like a heavy blanket. The library had always felt like a different realm, tucked safely away from the chaos of the hallways and the whispers that clung to me like static.

Tall shelves lined the walls, their spines forming a mosaic of muted colors—faded reds, deep greens, and cracked blacks. Some titles leaned like tired shoulders against their neighbors, stories waiting patiently to be remembered. The windows were tall and narrow, letting in slants of afternoon light that dust danced through, like the books were breathing.

My boots barely made a sound on the gray carpet, which muffled not just footsteps, but thoughts. The tables were arranged like a chessboard—orderly, strategic, too clean. A few students sat scattered, heads down, pencils tapping, but no one noticed me, they rarely did.

I liked it that way.

In the far corner, the fiction section called to me. It was always quieter there, away from the computers and the tired buzz of printers. The shelves felt alive, pulsing with the voices of characters who'd never betray me, with stories that wrap around me like armor. Here, no one asked questions. No one looked at me like they knew what I was hiding inside. 

I ran my fingers along the edge of a shelf, wood worn smooth from years of curious hands. I had always found comfort in the silence—not the kind that echoed with avoidance, but the kind that welcomed me in. Like the library knew my secrets and promised to keep them.

It was good to know I could still be safe here. Grabbing a chair by the far corner, I set my table, looping my backpack on the rack. 

I needed a book.

I close my eyes for a second. Just a second. Relaxing my thoughts. 

Thoughts of my English class earlier.

Or should I say my English teacher.

Groaning, I stand heading into the heart of the library. 

The fiction section.

As cringe as it was to admit it. I know that's exactly what I need to escape reality. 

I slip between the shelves like I'm trying not to wake something sleeping. The air smells like old paper and lemon polish, and it calms me more than I want to admit. I fish my earbuds out of my hoodie pocket and press play.

The soft strum of Youth by Daughter starts to hum in my ears, and her voice—aching and fragile—wraps around me like a whisper I didn't know I needed.

"And if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones…"

I trace my fingers along the spines of worn-out books, eyes scanning titles I've heard too many times already. I'm not sure what I'm looking for—maybe something that hurts less than reality but not too weird. Maybe something that understands me without trying to fix me.

My hand pauses on a book with a cracked spine and no cover. It's tucked in like it's hiding. I pulled it out. The Things We Left Behind.

Funny. Or cruel.

I hold it to my chest and lean back against the bookshelf. The lyrics sink into my skin, soft and painful all at once. There's a line between numb and okay, and I'm not sure which side I'm standing on right now.

In this little pocket of quiet, with the music in my ears and the weight of stories all around me, I can breathe. Here, I'm not the girl with a past I can't say out loud. I'm just a girl looking for a book. Looking for a way out, even if it's only for a few chapters.

I open my eyes and push off the shelf, book still in hand, and turn—

—and slam straight into something. Or someone?

The book slips from my grip and hits the floor with a thud. My heart lurches.

"Shit—sorry," I mutter, yanking out one earbud, the music still faint in the other.

Then I see who it is.

Mr Kieran Lane.

Of course.

Tall, all sharp edges and shadows, with his ever-present storm in his eyes. Missing his blazer jacket, with his white shirt rolled halfway up his arm. He smelled like old books and something a little darker—like secrets wrapped in cologne.

His hand twitches like he's about to pick up the book, but he stops halfway. "Didn't mean to scare you," he says quietly, voice low, almost careful.

"I wasn't scared," I lie, even though my pulse is still trying to catch up.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking from the book to me. "You always look like you're somewhere else. I didn't think you'd actually be in the fiction section."

"Why?" I bend down to grab the book, avoiding his gaze. "Think I'm too damaged for fiction?" I try to keep the attitude off my voice, failing. 

"I think fiction is the only place people like us feel seen," he says, without missing a beat.

"People like us?" This time, I don't try to pretend like I'm not trying to be rude. Hard steel eyes stare right back at me.

"I overstepped, apologies miss Thornhill"

I hug the book tighter to my chest. My earbud still hums Youth in the background, like a soundtrack to this strange and silently heated collision 

"You listen to music when you read?" he asks, like he's genuinely curious, not judging.

I shrug. "Helps me stay out of my head."

He nods, like he gets it.

And for a second, standing there under flickering fluorescent lights and between books that don't ask questions, it almost feels like we are bare.

I don't know this man, and I hate how fast he sees through me.

He doesn't know you yet.

Mocking me, my thoughts remind me.

About to excuse myself, I hear a loud all too familiar voice. 

"There you are!" 

I turn only to see kai holding up two sandwiches in sealed bags.

Food wasn't allowed in the library. 

And he just showed the whole library the evidence of his crime.

Idiot.

"I'm sure you know food isn't allowed on here, mister harris" I could hear the librarian scolding him.

I hear him curse.

Urrrgghh.

I just wanted a quiet time,away from everyone.

I head towards him, fighting the urge to slap him across the head. He may be 6'4, but I'm a 5'8.

It was very possible.

Mr Lane passes by me, heading straight for them.

I rake my mind. Hard

What do I do??

He'll probably get detention for a month.

Sighing, I rush towards them, beating Mr Lane. 

"Miss William, it was my fault, I'm sorry it won't happen again" I pleaded looking down at my feet.

I'd have to save both our asses.

And Miss William is a softie anyways. She'll forgive us.

"Fine, just this one time" sighing in relief, I shot him daggers in my head.

"I honestly don't think that would do, miss William" 

Huh?

"Mister Lane, I'm sure they didn't mean to break the rules, they are kids, they'll learn". I dance in my head when I hear Miss William's counter.

"But they are seniors who have been in the school for years, I'm sure they were well aware of the library rules before committing this act"

Scowling, I turn to face him.

"And it's obviously Miss Cassey's fault, she's obviously a regular here, she knew the rules and still had her friend bring food to the library, that's worthy of punishment".

Anyone looking at him would see clear detest in his eyes.

Why was he looking at me like I killed his puppy?

"So, I propose detention for mister harris for, let's say two weeks, since he was an accomplice while miss Thronhill would get detention for a whole month, being the mastermind"

"But that's not…" stopping kai, I step forward.

"Fine, we accept the punishment, not because you're right sir, but because we respect our elders"

A few chuckles arise in the library. 

Being called an elder for any young person was a stylish insult.

As soon as I saw his jaw harden, I felt satisfied. 

"Every day except the weekends, you'll serve detention in my office".

"Yes sir"

With that he stormed out ,

Looking like a villain who had his plans foiled by the heroes.

That'll teach him not to mess with me.

Now.

Back to the biggest blob in the room.

"You. Outside. Now"