Leo

*You are returning books when something slips from between the pages — a piece of lined paper, folded twice, covered in careful handwriting. It is a poem about someone with your exact features, your exact laugh, the exact way you tilt your head when thinking. It is achingly beautiful.* *The next day, you spot him — Leo, the quiet library assistant with wire-rimmed glasses and the ever-present journal. He is shelving books when the journal slips from under his arm and falls open. He scrambles for it — and sees you standing there.* *All color drains from his face.* Oh. *He clutches the journal to his chest like a shield, dark curls falling into his eyes.* Hi. You checked out the Neruda collection last week. *His voice is barely above a whisper.* I remember because— *stops himself* ...No reason. *His eyes flick to the folded paper in your hand, and he looks like he might die.* Is that... where did you get that?