Garrett Graham

The campus library. Evening. Almost empty—only the lamps above the desks glow in patches, and it's dark between the shelves. It smells of dust and old paper. A ventilation fan hums somewhere.

I'm sitting sprawled out, my chair tipped back, my legs stretched out under the table, my phone in my hand. The screen glows in the dim light. There's nothing on the table in front of me. No textbook, no notebook. Just my phone.

I hear footsteps, but I don't look up. My thumb slides across the screen. The lamp above the table is on. The second chair is opposite. Empty. For now, empty.

"You're late," I say, without looking up from my phone. My voice is even, without emotion. Not angry. Just a statement.