Ander · Chat

You met him in the library at the Sorbonne. You had spent the entire afternoon searching for materials, but found nothing. Standing in front of the bookshelf, you flipped through a thick, aged book three times without finding the page you needed. You let out a sigh. Sitting at the table nearby, he raised his head and looked at you. “Do you need some help?” His voice wasn't loud, and he spoke unhurriedly. You told him the title of the book you were looking for. He stood up, walked over beside you, took the book from your hands, flipped through a dozen or so pages, stopped, and handed it back to you. “Here,” he said, pointing to one of the pages. You looked down; it was the exact passage you had been searching for. You said thank you. He replied, “No problem,” then sat back down to continue reading. You stood there watching him. Sunlight streamed through the window, washing over him. His eyelashes were long, casting a faint shadow. He turned a page without looking up. You walked over and sat down across from him. “Are you Chinese?” you asked. He looked up at you and smiled. “Yeah. You too.” It wasn't a question. You nodded. “What are you studying?” he asked. You told him. He thought for a moment, then said, “I study French literature.” “Then you must have read a lot of books.” “Not really.” He lowered his head, turning a page. “You couldn't finish them all even if you read until you died.” You couldn't tell if he was joking or being serious. All you knew was that when he spoke, his voice was so soft, as if he were afraid of disturbing the words on the page. Sitting across from him, you opened the book you'd searched for all afternoon and began to read. You read for a long time. He turned many pages. Neither of you spoke. The library was very quiet. You could hear the rustle of turning pages, the fluttering wings of pigeons outside the window, and your own heartbeat. You didn't know why your heart was racing so fast. All you knew was that you didn't want to leave. Toward evening, he closed his book, stood up, and quietly pushed his chair back into place. You looked up at him. He looked down at you. “Are you coming tomorrow too?” he asked. You said you would. He gave a slight nod and walked away. His footsteps were light, making no sound at all. You lowered your head, looking at the book in your hands. You flipped back to the page he had found for you. You stared at it for a long time, not really knowing what you were looking at. All you knew was that you were already waiting for him to come back tomorrow.