Working at the library is like slipping into an old sweater. It's not glamorous or exciting, but it's warm, soft in its familiarity. The place is steady and it suits me.
I've been here almost for the entirety of my relationship with Derek, and not much has changed since my first day. Same creaky floors, same dust motes drifting in the afternoon light, the same tired stacks of books that need reshelving. It's comforting in a way, knowing what to expect every single day. No surprises, no chaos. Just the slow, reliable hum of library life.
The pay, though, is another story. It's not great. It's definitely not going to be enough to afford the apartment without Derek's share. And that thought makes my insides churn with anxiety. At the time I took the job it was enough to make me feel like an adult, technically, but not enough to feel secure. Still, it's stable. I've got health insurance, which is more than a lot of people can say. And there's something about the rhythm of the place that I find calming. The quiet predictability of it all. Even as I think that and step through the doors, I realize that all that comfort and predictability has evaporated from the rest of my life. Derek left. Everything we built together is crumbling before my eyes. Naturally, this makes me want to cling to the familiarity of this place even more. The library might be all I have now. The thought makes my heart seize as the urge to cry rises in my throat.
*Nope, Skye, no more. Not here, not now. You're a professional, cut it out.*
I chastise myself silently, trying to regain some sense of purpose. This is my job; I have to function.
People don't understand what's important about being a librarian. They hear the word and think it's some cozy gig where I sit around reading books all day, occasionally shushing rowdy kids. If only. I know that we have a long presentation day ahead of us. Like every year, we've invited the seniors from a neighboring high school for career orientation. Truth be told, I don't like this part of my job, specifically the trying to teach teenagers anything aspect. But as usual I'm the one who's drawn the short straw of having to give the actual talk. My boss, Martha, the sixty-something veteran head-librarian, assigned me. She wouldn't let me say no, wouldn't hear any excuses, just told me flat-out that she was too old to deal with teens, that since I was still in my twenties and therefore the youngest staff member - although barely -, I was probably able to relate to them more easily. Not true at all. I couldn't even relate to teens when I was one.
I sigh as I walk in.The library where I work isn't some grand, sweeping, architectural marvel. It's no New York Public Library with its marble lions and towering ceilings. Ours is more understated, tucked into a quiet corner of Chicago, between a laundromat and a florist that always seems on the verge of closing down. It's decent-sized for a neighborhood library, big enough to get lost in if you don't know your way around but small enough to feel intimate.
When you first walk in, the circulation desk greets you right away, a little too close to the entrance for my liking. It's positioned just past the sliding doors, which means in winter, every time someone comes in, a blast of cold air hits whoever's working the desk. I spend more time than I'd like shivering and flipping through returns with stiff fingers. The desk itself is cluttered with everything from lost library cards to forgotten notebooks, bookmarks, and the occasional half-finished cup of coffee that I always seem to misplace.
To the left of the entrance is the children's section—low shelves packed with picture books, bright colors popping out from worn spines. There's a circle of bean bags in the middle, surrounded by tiny chairs and a few scuffed tables that have seen better days. The kids love to sit there for story hour or to plop down and read, usually noisier than they should be but in a way that's hard to get mad at, unless you're Martha on a particularly hard day. It smells faintly like crayons and spilled juice, even though food and drinks aren't allowed. We mostly pretend we don't notice.
Straight ahead from the desk, the adult fiction and nonfiction sections stretch out in neat rows, shelves stacked high with books that haven't been touched in years alongside bestsellers that never stay on the shelf long enough to gather dust. We've got a handful of reading nooks scattered between the stacks, small armchairs tucked away with half-dead lamps overhead, perfect for getting lost in a novel or hiding from the world for a while. I like those spots. When the library is quiet, I sometimes sneak over to one, sit down with a book, and just disappear for a minute. Although I didn't do it as often over the past few weeks, what with the wedding preparations beckoning me to hurry home and get them done.
To the right of the desk, there's the media section—a hodgepodge of DVDs, CDs, and audiobooks. People still check them out, surprisingly enough. Across from that is the computer lab. Twelve desktops lined up in two rows, ancient enough that we've had to replace the keyboards more than once because the letters get worn down so fast. The computers are almost always in use—people job hunting, kids playing games, or just patrons trying to escape the cold or heat, depending on the season.
Upstairs, if you follow the creaky old staircase, you'll find the quiet study area. It's my favorite part of the library. The windows up there are huge, overlooking the street below, and in the late afternoon, the light pours in just right, making everything look softer, almost golden. Long tables and mismatched chairs fill the room, along with a few outlets that everyone fights over. It's where people come to write or study, heads down, laptops glowing. I've always found the quiet up there to be different from the rest of the library—less restless, more intentional.
There's also the staff area in the back, a break room that smells like stale coffee and microwave popcorn. It's cramped, with a table too small for more than two people to comfortably sit at, but it's where I escape to when I need a breather. It's nothing special, just a place to sit and scarf down my lunch before getting back to the grind of the day.
The building itself is old, you can feel it in the way the floorboards groan under your weight, or how the radiators hiss and clank like they're struggling just to keep up. In the summer, it's too hot, and in the winter, it's too cold. But there's a charm to it, something about the imperfections that feels right. It's like the library is alive in a way—never perfect, but always trying, or so I like to think. Maybe I'm just anthropomorphizing a building to feel less abandoned.
I come past the front desk where Rica is stationed this morning, clearly bracing herself for the more stressful than usual day ahead by covertly scrolling through her phone. Rica is in her mid-thirties, so only slightly older than me, yet we've never really clicked. I grimace internally at the thought, remembering how Derek used that very expression in reference to himself and Emily the clown, then immediately push the memory away.
Rica is short, petite, her makeup is always flawless. She makes TikToks in her free time, giving dating advice, makeup tutorials and story times about stalkery exes and weird dates. I've dabbled in her content, always with the sickly feeling of spying on her, like some pervert sitting in a bush in front of her house. But she posts that stuff openly on the internet for everyone to see, so... When she notices me, Rica flicks her enormous dark eyes up, her full lips quirking into the ghost of a smile. "Hiya, Skye-a!"
I withstand the urge to roll my eyes at the twee little rhyme. Rica doesn't mean to be performative, it's just her natural disposition somehow. Rica gets up and leans against the circulation desk. She's wearing this effortless, breezy sundress that looks straight out of a fashion shoot, even though it's barely hitting 60 degrees outside. Her hair is perfectly wavy too, those dark locks falling in beautiful layers. As much as I don't want to, I kind of have to ask her for hair advice some time.
"Skye, you gotta see this," she says, not looking up from her screen. "I'm thinking of doing this dance challenge. It's, like, retro but with a twist. Very me."
I force a half-smile, trying to look interested, but I'm exhausted—mentally more than anything. Rica must sense it because she pauses, eyes narrowing in on me like a hawk. She puts the phone down, tilting her head; her waves bounce dramatically and the morning light ripples across them.
"What's up with you? You look... I don't know, off." She studies me for a second, I can almost feel her mentally tallying my flaws. Dry skin, bags under my eyes, general puffiness. Then she comes out and just bluntly poses the dreaded question,"Is it Derek? You two have a fight?"
Shame floods me and I bite my lip, the burn of tears starting somewhere behind my eyes, but I'm not going to cry. I promised myself I wouldn't. It's not an option.
"He broke up with me," I say flatly. Rica is often painfully straightforward with what she calls "her truth", but I can be that too. The breakup is just a fact now, like the weather or some awful car accident. I'll talk about it the way a news reporter would.
Rica's eyes widen. I can see the disbelief and the way her mind races to reassemble her image of me.
"Wait, what? Seriously?" She shifts closer, genuinely surprised and unashamedly curious. Rica lives for the goss and if I tell her, everyone in this building will know sooner rather than later. "When?"
Despite my trepidation, I know it's too late to try and hide the deets, as Rica would say. Plus, if she goes and tells the story, it'll save me the effort.
"Last night."
She blinks, then lets out a low almost appreciative whistle as if she's catcalling my misery.
"Holy shit, Skye. I'm—" She frowns, and I get the feeling that she wants to say impressed, though I have no idea why. She doesn't. Instead she says what she's supposed to say and her words come out with a dusty, slightly dishonest air. "I'm sorry. But like... wow. I did not see that coming. I mean, you guys were engaged and everything!"
I shrug, not sure what to say to that. I didn't see it coming either. She hesitates for a second, then reaches out, placing a perfectly manicured hand on my arm. Her nails are bright yellow today. Weirdly, I find myself thinking that I like them a lot. Unlike me and my situation, they're cheerful.
"Okay, screw him. He was cute, but there was no real light behind his eyes. He was giving major ventriloquist dummy vibes, no offense."
I can feel my eyebrows crawl to my hairline. It's weird to hear everyone's unfiltered impressions of Derek all of a sudden. I try to think of how many times Rica has even met Derek. Maybe a dozen, so she barely knows him.
Rica pats my arm a little patronizingly. "You're gonna be fine."
It's what people say, but I'm not sure it's true. Rica squeezes my arm before letting go. "Guess all you can do now is focus on the kids coming in today and forget about that dead inside dude, yeah?"
I nod, not surprised that Rica cares more about me doing my job than my actual state of mind. I can't blame her, if I choke today, Martha will ruthlessly throw her to the teens.
"Good. Now, go get ready, kids will be here in half an hour. I've got the desk. Don't forget, teenagers can smell weakness! You got this, sis."
I give her a weak smile as I start making my way to the conference room.
"I got this," I repeat for myself, tempted to keep saying it under my breath, again and again like a mantra.