Quiet Confessions

The library was nearly empty, just the low hum of the AC and the occasional rustle of paper. Brielle sat cross-legged on the floor between two forgotten shelves, her laptop perched on a stack of dusty history books.

Elijah sat opposite her, one knee drawn up, scribbling notes with a half-broken pencil. His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, and a strand of his messy hair kept falling over his eyes.

They hadn't said much in a while. Just silence.

"I don't get how you're still functioning," Brielle said finally, staring at him. "You've barely slept this week."

He looked up, a crooked smile on his lips. "I could say the same about you."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, but you're carrying the weight of the world and your little sister's recital tomorrow."

"I'm used to it." He paused. "But sometimes I wish someone would just… notice."

The words were barely a whisper, like he regretted saying them as soon as they left his mouth.

Brielle didn't speak. Instead, she reached out, brushing his hand. A small touch. Innocent. But it made his breath hitch.

"I notice," she said softly.

Their eyes locked.

It was like the air shifted, denser, quieter, charged.

"I shouldn't like you," he murmured, voice rough with honesty. "You complicate everything. You're chaos, Brielle."

She smirked. "And you're order. Maybe that's why.

He leaned in.

Not fast, not impulsive, just… certain. And when their lips met, it wasn't desperate. It was slow, soft, like a promise they weren't ready to say out loud yet.

When they pulled apart, his forehead rested against hers.

"We can't let anyone know," he said, voice low.

"I know."

Neither moved. They stayed in that quiet bubble a little longer. Just a boy and a girl who didn't know how to fix the world, but found a bit of peace in each other.