Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 39

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The library was quiet in the way only early mornings could be, sunlight dripped lazily through the tall windows, and dust floated like tiny secrets above shelves. I sat at the table James and I used for tutoring... our unofficial spot. It still carried the memory of his presence. The ghost of his laughter still lingered between the bookends.

I leaned back, letting my fingers trail over the edge of the table, and closed my eyes for a moment. James used to look at me here. Not in the way people look at you, but in the way people see you. Like my silences weren’t awkward. Like they were poems waiting to be understood.

I glanced at the bracelet on my wrist.... the one he gave me. A replica of my mom’s butterfly bracelet. Not exact, not perfect. But chosen. Remembered.

Love, I realized, wasn’t always about grand confessions or perfect timing. Sometimes, it was in the trying. In the act of waking up and saying, I want to be better... for you, because of you. Not for applause. Not for everyone. Just to be somebody to someone.

A chair scraped against the floor. I looked up.

Matt entered the library like he was walking out of a fashion editorial. His black leather jacket caught the light, the white stars stitched like fallen constellations across his chest and sleeve. Underneath, a gray shirt with thin black lines lay open to reveal a black turtleneck, a rustic gold medallion hanging from a chain at his throat. Black trousers, silver belt chains, thick-soled leather shoes that clicked across the tile.

He looked… curated. Like someone who knew exactly what they wanted the world to see.

His eyes met mine, unreadable.

“Any problems, Betty?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

“N-no,” I managed.

“Shall we start?”

I nodded, straightening in my seat.

He sat across from me, opening a thin folder with practiced ease. “The whole student body leaders form the committee,” he began in a flat tone. “I’m the chairperson. You’ll be my consultant. Are you okay with that arrangement?”

“Sure,” I said, though it felt like I had no say either way.

He continued without pausing. “Since the school’s sponsoring the event, there’s no need for fundraising. Your task will be to review these...” he slid the folder toward me “...ticket pricing, projected attendance, and budget allocations. Venue, sound, décor, food, photo booths, security, and invitations.”

His delivery was smooth, sharp. Like a presentation. Not a conversation.

I opened the folder, skimming through the spreadsheets and proposals, each page neat and color-coded.

So this is how Matt operates, I thought. Logical. Professional. Efficient. A system, not a story. A checklist, not a feeling.

It’s no wonder people admired him. He sounded so sure.

“You can send your notes in the group chat we made,” he added as he stood. “The rest can be finalized online. It’ll be more efficient that way. Less interaction between us.”

He turned without waiting for my response and walked out, his shoes echoing behind him. I stared at the empty chair across from me.

Just yesterday, James kissed my forehead like I was a prayer he didn’t know he believed in yet. And now here I was, looking at a folder full of logistics, my heart still half-tethered to someone who looked at me like I was worth getting right.

Matt never looked back.

I didn’t think twice. I left the folder on the table and jogged out of the library.

“He went out back,” a student whispered to me, pointing toward the old storage wing... where forgotten chairs and broken desks gathered dust in solitude. Like a graveyard for things once useful.

I found him there. Slouched against a crumbling wall, partially hidden behind a crooked filing cabinet. He held a cigarette between his fingers, the ember tip glowing like a small rebellion. The smoke curled upward, dissolving into the light like something that didn't want to be seen.

"Since when did you learn to cigarette?" I asked, breath catching.

His back didn’t leave the wall. "Since when did you care, Betty?"

His tone was flat... no anger, no softness. Just static.

"You… you changed."

"People change." He exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his lips. “Some slowly, some drastic. In some ways, it’s inevitable.”

"You turned out worse," I said, before I could filter it.

He looked at me then, finally. Not startled. Not offended. Just… mildly amused. "You think?"

"I do." My voice was smaller than I wanted it to be. "You used to be kind. Steady. Clean. People looked up to you."

"Yeah, well… I got tired of being a benchmark," he said, flicking ash onto the cracked floor. "Tired of being everyone’s definition of better. Of being told I was ‘too perfect to feel.’ You think that doesn’t rot someone inside?”

I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "So what... now you just don’t care about anything?"

"No," he said. "Now I don’t care about what they think. There’s a difference."

"You don’t even care what I think anymore?"

He didn’t answer.

A silence hung between us, heavy like dust on the chairs stacked behind him. In the old days, he would have broken it. With a smile. A math pun. A quiet apology.

Now?

He took another drag. "You’re still playing the part, huh? The good girl. The fixer. Pretending people don’t ruin each other when they get too close."

I shook my head. "You don’t get to talk like you know me, not when you shut me out the second things got hard."

"And you don’t get to judge me for stopping the performance."

His words weren’t cruel. That’s what made them worse.

"You used to believe in things, Matt."

He crushed the cigarette under his boot.

"Belief is expensive," he said. "And I ran out of change."

I didn’t say goodbye.

I just turned and walked.

The quiet swallowed me as I reentered the library. My footsteps against the tile echoed like a whisper too loud in a place meant for silence. The air smelled of old paper, lemon cleaner, and dust... the scent of things that have been waiting too long to be remembered.

I slipped back into the seat where Matt had left the folder. It sat there like an instruction manual to a future I wasn’t sure I wanted. Neat. Predictable. Efficient. Just like him.

I stared at the paper, but all I saw was smoke. His words still lingered, heavy like fog behind my eyes. "Belief is expensive and I ran out of change."

I used to think he was gold. Unbendable. Measured. Someone you could lean on without fear of tipping them over. But today, all I saw was brass... dull under the light, brittle at the edges. Beautiful still, but colder now.

I traced the bracelet on my wrist. The one James gave me. James never said the right thing all the time. He didn’t lead a committee or build spreadsheets. But he looked at me like I was made of stars and storm clouds and everything in between and he stayed. Every day, he stayed, even when I wasn’t the easiest version of myself.

Love, I’m learning, isn’t about having a plan.

Sometimes it’s just someone sitting next to you in the dark, not asking you to come into the light, but saying: It’s okay. I’ll sit here too.

Matt had blueprints.

James had faith.

And maybe... maybe that’s the difference.