I quietly entered the library, walking towards the counter to return the books that were due today. The lady adjusted her glasses and started checking out the books. Looking over my shoulder, I only see a few students scattered on different tables. Unlike yesterday, all the tables and chairs were fully occupied. “Here you go,” she said with a smile as she returned my library card. “Thanks,” I bowed in reply.

Before stepping outside, I first checked the time – two hours left before my next class starts. With nothing else to do, I found myself turning back, walking towards the literature section. If not doing assignments, I spend my time reading or just browsing random novels and poetry books. It’s the next best thing to watching cable.

As my hands grazed through the books, my eyes scanning the titles, one particular thin book caught my attention. It was facing the wrong way. I pulled it out to return it properly, with the midrib which contains the title and other details would face me, when I noticed a piece of paper sticking out. Curious, I carefully opened to the page where it was inserted, thinking that it was marked by someone.

Much to my surprise, it wasn’t a bookmark. Written on it, is a poem.

You passed by me once again, my sweet breeze

How I cherish these brief moments with you

Your mere presence, my gentle Princess

Burns the flame inside my heart

Awakening my weary soul

You bring with you the warmth of the sun

Melting all my fears and worries away

Taking me into a state of pure bliss

“Such a nice poem, what are you doing here? Did your master carelessly leave you here?” I reinserted the poem and returned the book to the shelf, facing the wrong direction. That person must have put it that way for a reason. Walking back to my classroom, I couldn’t help but think of the poem. It was about his love, but I felt sadness reading it.

The very next day, I found myself in that aisle in the literature section, wondering if he managed to get his poem back. Or maybe, he left it for her. Wow, this is exciting. It’s like I am a watcher in someone else’s love story. I smiled at the thought. The book was once again in that position just as I expected. Reaching towards the book, I held back. The poem wasn’t for me to read. It was intended for his princess. So, I looked around for other books. However, nothing caught my interest. It was that particular book or rather poem which I am