#bro read her whole heart and soul and is just like whoospies

[ofherbalisms]

closed starter to: @heartxsighs time + location: the library, midnight

    𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑫𝑨𝒀 𝑯𝑨𝑺 𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑫 into night. Shuffling footsteps and whispers have settled, dormant, in the corners until morrow day. There is the grainy residue of sweat long cooled and dried on the man's neck, chest, arms. Somehow, even in winter, he would start the day out bundled up and end it with sleeves rolled to the elbows and every button undone at the neckline. The icy wind felt refreshing on his bare skin during the trek down to the library. The day had long expired for most of the compound's residents, but Reuven tended to be one of the few that would stave off sleep; fight it, like a toddler to their mid-day nap, because even if rest would make him feel better, to him the day wasn't finished. He hadn't gotten to read that leather-bound journal at the far end of the reference section, tucked in between the encyclopedias and atlases. Surely whoever had put it there had meant it not to be found, but discovered it anyway, Reuven had.

    At first it had been innocent intrigue. After all, who would leave a nameless book tucked onto an incongruent bookshelf, as though it belonged there? The man had picked it up and thumbed through it, only to discover it was full of viscera. He had read some poetry as a boy, and then eventually once again as a college student himself, but he'd read the words of old. Hemingway and Poe and Dickinson. When he'd had the task of writing a poem himself, for a grade, it was done as fawn attempts to gallop. Reuven was not a poet, by any means, but this poetry collection he stumbled across had still captivated him so thoroughly. These words were relatable. The poet's grief was his own grief. He wondered how on earth he had been so lucky to come across such an eloquent and pertinent piece of literature, when he returned to read it again the following week and found that it had gained a new entry. His heart had thudded in his realization that he had been reading someone's diary. Someone who lived at the grounds. He felt that he had violated the writer's privacy, and it suddenly felt so wrong to pick it back up. His restraint lasted for a few weeks, until he thought to himself—well, what's the harm? I'll never meet them anyway. The book was unsigned. And he had, though he would never admit it, made casual attempts at figuring out who was writing it. Their identity remained anonymous. All of it except... all of it. He read about their inner workings. Their insecurities. Their dreams. Their depression.

    The man would find a quiet corner tucked in the very back of the library, sit down in one of the sofa chairs and melt into the writing. After long, empathy gave way to sympathy. Sympathy gave way to anxiety. And eventually, he could no longer deny himself the next page of the book out of pure necessity to know this person was still here. When he arrived to the library that night, he anticipated the silence and alone time. After all, who else would be in the library at midnight?

    Very quickly he discovered who. His linguistic effigy. His web weaver.

    He was rounding the corner of one of the shelves and stopped in his tracks. Dark eyes grew orb-like in surprise. There was a form, curled up in the same chair he so often sat wide-stanced in, reading the same book this form possessed now. There she was, with that leather-bound book open to its next page, weaving it together even more than its binding did. He stood, baffled and staring, for much too long, as when she realized a figure was staring at her, she gave a little start and a little scream and he found himself frantically apologizing for scaring her. "Sorry! Sorry, I—" but... he what? What would he say? He'd come to read her journal? Her most vulnerable and authentic thoughts? Finally, coming face to face with this poet he'd grown to know like the back of his own hand, the herbalist was struck with overwhelm to meet her, properly, and also to go running for the hills, because how entitled must he have been, to go waltzing up like it was written for his eyes alone to read? Reuven swallowed, and then suddenly he couldn't look at her any longer. His gaze panned off to the side, palm finding his neck. Gaze panned off at nothing, nowhere, anywhere but at her and that damn book.

    "Are you—uh—" he paused, cleared his throat. "Are you reading that? I was gonna..." but he trailed off. Should he even admit to his sins? Would she not be mortified? "Uh... You know what? Nevermind, I'm just gonna..." thumb pointed back, the way he came. "Sorry for bothering you. Um... Have a good night."