𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞

There's a welcomed change in atmosphere once you cross the worn-carpet threshold of a library. The constant noise and chaos crumbles. You taste the whimsy in the words unread, in the spines that haven't yet been cracked open. The tall, looming shelves pull you into their maze and spit you out with an armful of stories that can twist your perspective into something new, something wonderful. Drag your gaze over to the pale sunlight filtering in through the frosted windows, passing through the slowly falling dust motes, and you'll find a rush of calm. Let the quiet settle over you like a heavy blanket woven with wool threads and tranquility.

It's a place of refuge... until you find something you're not meant to find. Something that squeezes between your thoughts, curling around your skull with vines that grow rapidly with every second. The idea of it takes hold. You wonder. And once curiosity is involved, your story can twist in any direction that is dangerous.

That's when it all started. That's how I now find myself pushing against crowds of students after the final bell on a Friday afternoon, making a beeline for the school library. I can't resist a good mystery.

Soon, I find myself turning the last corner and slowing to a stop at the dusty double doors of the school library.

I feel my tense shoulders start to ease. Despite the unsolved mysteries and startling surprises I've come across in there, libraries are still those rare places in the world where chaos is contained in words wrapped in soft lavender covers, and loneliness seems like a far-off dream I'll only return to when I drag myself out of the swirling world of ink. I've found true love in crisp pages. Or perhaps the mustiness hanging in the stale air is finally damaging my brain and making me think like a profound drunk dude reciting Tumblr poetry at a party.

Sighing, I push open the sticky double doors, feeling like shit after a long day. I should stop romanticizing this small mess of a place that is terribly underfunded and coffee-stained. Both the pages and the tables. Sometimes, even the lapel of the uptight, pinched-mouthed librarian is stained beige with coffee.

The school librarian. The only decent person in this hell.

I've been friends with Mr. Walter Silva ever since I asked him if he came out of the womb shushing people, and he made me reorganize the library books aesthetically as punishment (which probably made Dewey roll in his grave). Middle-aged with a permanent frown etched on his face, it was clear he needed someone to talk to—a confidant to listen to his midlife crises and complaints about the lovesick seniors who make out in the history section, right under the watchful eye of Lincoln on a cheap portrait canvas. And once I got to know him, my favorite librarian, not Lincoln, he gave the best queer book recommendations.

I stroll up to him now, grinning when he rolls his eyes at the sight of me. Drumming my fingers on the front desk, I ask, "Anything interesting today, Walter?"

Heaving a huge sigh, he pulls out a book from underneath his pile of the latest queer novels and gilded collector's editions of Great Expectations. There's also a werewolf book that is definitely 90% smut and Wuthering Heights mixed in there too. I guess you could say he's a wide reader.

Raising a brow, I pluck a hefty copy of Great Expectations from the pile and whisper conspiratorially, "You know you're not required to read this, right? No need to torture yourself."

"The only torture I go through is talking to you," he huffs loftily, plopping down the book he was pulling out from the bottom of his pile.

It says in big, loopy letters on the pastel pink cover: A Guide To The Ultimate Question: TTYL?

On the inside cover, it reads: Think that you're lesbian?

I cackle, ignoring the pointed glares of my fellow students trying to study in peace. "Fucking genius. Can I check this out?"

Walter ignores the question. "Turn to page sixty-nine."

"I—Walter," I choke on a laugh, "She did it again?"

A smile works its way onto his face, and he indulges me a tiny nod before asking gently, "But how do we know if the mysterious note-leaver is a she?"

"Because how else will I have an epic lesbian romance and peak in high school?" I retort sarcastically, flipping the pages to find the note.

The notes. It all started when I was reading this book a few months ago—a stunning novel about the '70s and girls and scarlet lipstick—when I found a hot pink sticky note caught between pages 302 and 304. Page 303 was ripped out by a homophobe who despised sapphic love scenes and champagne. The guy conveniently tore out the page and cut it up while Walter was standing stiffly behind him with murder in his eyes. Walter was very, very unhappy. There were broken noses and not-so-empty death threats.

Back to the note. It read: who the fuck rips out the best part? I was about to take notes. Followed by a disturbing drawing of a hotdog being chopped up that made my face more gleeful and twisted with suppressed laughter than it should've.

I was in love. And after that note, there were more. Tucked into self help books and steamy romances. Some were just hilarious commentary, others more serious and written with a heavier hand, like she forgot these sticky notes aren't diaries or her notes app. But in way, they are.

These mini confessions she writes in dark ink give me little glimpses of her life, and I can't help wanting to know more. Can't help wanting to shape these glimpses into a person who is more than hot pink sticky notes and lavender perfume (Yes, she lightly sprays her notes with expensive-smelling perfume. She's that extra.)

Walter and I have looked at the checked-out book records to find out who's behind the notes in all the library books, but we couldn't find anything.

Who is she?

I narrow my eyes at the latest note that is now in my hands. It's folded in neat quarters. I glance at Walter who pretends to distractedly read his werewolf smut, but I know he's really waiting to witness my reaction since he's already read the contents of the note.

"Walter," I say dryly, tilting my head to the side to read the title of the book he's holding. "One Bite, One Love is upside-down."

The students studying at the tables near us snicker, and Walter groans and tosses the book behind him where it knocks over his jar of perfectly sharpened, rainbow pencils. He doesn't seem to care.

"Just read the damn note, Isla," he snaps exasperatedly.

My heart is loud and thrumming in my ears as I carefully unfold the hot pink sticky note.

Then I drop it like it's a bag of hot coals dug out from the deepest depths of hell.

TTYL, Isla? Call me.

And then she left her phone number. I've never seen anything more frightening and exciting and glorious. Suddenly, the floor feels like it's tilting. I grip the edge of the front desk to steady myself.

Walter rolls his eyes at my dramatics.

My heart is in my throat. With a weak laugh, I joke, "Well then. An epic lesbian romance is finally in the cards."

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okay, i know the first chapter is a little weak. i promise it gets better :)

... does it though? not really.