The Library Pact

Liana couldn’t focus the next day.

Not in English class, not during lunch, not even during her favorite class—art. Her mind kept drifting back to the image in Kieran’s sketchbook. The way he had captured her so effortlessly, like he’d been watching for a long time.

Worse than that?

She liked it.

No one had ever drawn her before. Or noticed her like that. And now, every time she blinked, she saw those careful pencil lines. The sunflower blooming in the windowsill. Her hair catching the imaginary sunlight.

She wasn’t used to being someone’s subject.

When the final bell rang, she walked to the library with a nervous flutter in her stomach. Not dread. Something else. Something she didn’t want to name.

He was already there, sketchbook open, slouched in the same seat like it was built just for him.

He didn’t look up. “You’re late, Sunshine.”

“You’re early,” she shot back.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t reply. Liana slid into the seat across from him, pulling out her notebook and pen. They sat in silence for a while, flipping through notes and tossing half-hearted ideas about fairy tales back and forth.

But something felt... different.

More charged.

More real.

“So,” Kieran said eventually, breaking the silence. “We should make a pact.”

“A pact?”

“Yeah. No fake small talk. No pretending. Just... honesty. Deal?”

Liana hesitated. “You think I pretend?”

“I know you do,” he said, calm and certain. “You hide behind your quiet like it’s armor.”

She stared at him, surprised by how raw that made her feel. Like he’d taken a crowbar to her chest and peeked inside.

“You do it too,” she whispered.

He smiled faintly. “Exactly. So... pact?”

She studied him. The walls were still there—his and hers—but maybe they didn’t have to be so high. Maybe letting him see a little more wouldn’t be the end of the world.

“Okay,” she said. “Pact.”

They sealed it with a pinky swear, which made them both laugh a little more than expected.

“Now tell me something real,” he said.

Liana paused, tapping her pen against her notebook.

“My mom died two years ago. Car accident. I haven’t really... talked since.”

The air between them stilled.

Kieran’s eyes softened, and his voice dropped lower. “My dad left when I was ten. Then my brother got into trouble and dragged me down with him. So my mom sent me here.”

Silence again. But it wasn’t awkward this time.

It was sacred.

“Your drawing,” she said quietly. “You’re really good. Like, professional good.”

He looked down, embarrassed. “It’s the only way I get stuff out. Talking doesn’t work for me.”

“Same,” she whispered.

They both looked at each other at the same time, as if realizing they spoke the same language—one without words. One of sketches and stares and silence that said everything.

“Can I draw you again?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked. “Like… now?”

He nodded.

Liana sat up straighter, unsure of what to do with her hands, unsure how to exist while being seen.

But she said yes anyway.

And as he sketched her again—eyes down, heart full—she realized something terrifying and beautiful:

She didn’t feel invisible anymore.

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