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the mystery section, though her heart was not in the Dewey Decimal System. She kept glancing toward the front door, expecting the familiar rhythm of Mark’s boots on the hardwood. When the door opened, she would hold her breath, only to find a teenager looking for a graphic novel or an elderly patron returning a stack of gardening magazines. Each time she realized it was not him, a dull ache settled in her chest. She had spent so long building a life defined by neat stacks and predictable outcomes that this sudden, jagged uncertainty felt like a physical weight. She was a librarian; she was supposed to know how to categorize things. Yet, there was no section in the library for "misunderstandings that make you want to hide in the archives." Across town, Mark sat at his drafting table, his pencil hovering over a set of blueprints for a new residential complex. He had been staring at the same corner of the floor plan for twenty minutes. The lines blurred together, forming nothing more than a chaotic web of graphite. He thought about the cafe, the way the light hit the window, and the specific, stubborn way Clara would tilt her head when she was trying to hide a smile. He had tried to call her twice, but his fingers had frozen over the keypad each time. What was he supposed to say? That he had been talking to Elena about a structural issue with a balcony? That he missed the way Clara smelled like old paper and vanilla? It sounded ridiculous when he played it out in his head. He feared that if he reached out, he would only confirm his own insecurities. He was a man who preferred blueprints because they were honest; they showed you exactly where the walls were. He was terrified that he was about to build a wall between himself and the only person who made the city feel like a home. Clara walked to the staff breakroom, hoping a cup of herbal tea might settle her nerves. She caught her reflection in the darkened window. She looked tired. It was strange how quickly the joy of the last few weeks had been replaced by this quiet, gnawing anxiety. She had spent years protecting her heart, keeping her life small and manageable to avoid the risk of disappointment. When Mark had entered her world, spilling lattes and sharing stories, she had let her guard down. Now, she felt exposed. She worried that she had projected a version of herself that was far more confident than the woman standing here, clutching a ceramic mug like a lifeline. She realized, as she stared at the swirling steam, that her silence was becoming a barrier. She was waiting for him to fix it, to somehow intuit that she had seen him with Elena and felt a flicker of jealousy that had spiraled into a full-blown crisis. But that was not fair to him. She had chosen to retreat instead of asking a simple question. She had chosen to treat their relationship like a fragile manuscript that had to be handled with gloves, rather than a living, breathing thing that needed sunlight and air. Meanwhile, Mark stood up and walked to his kitchen. He made a cup of coffee, but he didn't even bother to drink it. He left it sitting on the counter, the steam vanishing into the cool air of his apartment. He felt like a fool. He had spent his career designing structures intended to last for decades, yet he couldn't seem to construct a