Jakarta.

We don’t need to talk. We never do in here. It’s like the books absorb all the noise, leaving just us and this unspoken thing that’s been ours since forever. She kicks my foot under the table, gentle but firm, like a reminder: I’m here, you’re here, and that’s enough. I kick back, because what else is there to say? The librarian glares, but we’re already grinning, two idiots in a sea of silence, owning every second of it.