Nobody Important

In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d willingly stepped inside one. He never liked the library ; it was so downright boring. He knew there were better things to enjoy in his campus which were much better than this — but with the cold wind biting at his neck and the campus quad too noisy for his liking, he had wandered in.

It was more like a distraction than a destination.

The heavy silence pressed against his ears as he slumped into a seat by the window, his chin resting on his palm. His table was empty — no books, no notes, nothing that might suggest he had any serious intentions of studying or anything closer to that.

He tapped his pen against the wooden surface in a lazy rhythm, watching the snowfall outside.

And that’s when his eyes landed on you.

You were seated at a table in the corner, your posture straight but not stiff, your eyes scanning the pages of a worn paperback intensely. A stray lock of hair fell across your cheek, but you didn’t brush it away. Instead, you stayed perfectly still, immersed in whatever story was hidden between the pages.

Unlike most of the students who filtered in and out of the library, you didn’t seem rushed or distracted. There were no frantic flips of the page or exasperated sighs of someone cramming for an exam. Your movements were deliberate, calm — too calm, even.

Jimin frowned, leaning back in his chair. You were familiar, though he couldn’t quite place why. Maybe it was because of your bag carelessly slung over the back of your chair. A model student, maybe? Or just someone who liked their own company?

He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he couldn’t quite piece together. He knew your name — although he feigned ignorance for the most part. There was a quietness about you that felt out of place — not just in the library, but in life itself.

Like you were a shadow passing through the world rather than living in it.

It bothered him, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the way you didn’t fidget, didn’t glance at the clock or check your phone like everyone else did. Bothered him in such a way which had him narrowing his eyes at you, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Or maybe it was the faint crease in your brow, the kind that made him wonder if the story you were reading was actually that interesting.

Boredom forgotten, Jimin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He licked his lips, his teeth gently nibbling on the plump flesh. You fasicnated him enough to not feel himself being bored to death, so, he decided that he should try and do something which would entertain him further.

So he decides to sit just beside you.

“Aren’t you just always reading?” he grins, his voice just loud enough to carry across the quiet space.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his for the briefest moment, and something about the way they held his gaze made his breath catch. Then, without a word, you returned to your book, as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

Now that was something Jimin couldn’t ignore.

“Not even going to say hi?” he asked, leaning closer.

“Hi,” you said softly, not looking up this time.

To say Jimin was offended was an understatement. How can someone ignore Park Jimin?

That was it. He reached over and plucked the book from your hands, your lack of resistance or reaction slightly surprising him again. “What’s so special about this old thing?” The cover of the book is faded, the texture a bit rough with its corners frayed, but he doesn’t care about that.

What he cares about is riling you up.

But you just sit there, watching him with an expression so blank it’s almost mocking. “You can keep it if you want,” you say softly. “Tear it, throw it, do whatever. I don’t care.”

His eye twitched at the nonchalance of your tone. Were you doing this on purpose to piss him off?

“And why is that?”

“It’s not mine.”

Jimin blinks.

What?

“I saw you pull it out of your bag.”

Your gaze drops to your clasped hands. For a moment, you seem almost… thoughtful, as if the gears in your head are working overtime to formulate the reply.

“I took it from an accident site,” you reply.

What? except that it wasn’t just inside his head. If anyone would see him, his thoughts were visible on his face, just like how subtitles are, on the bottom of the screen.

“What?” His voice pitched and he felt his brows knit together.

You leaned back, tilting your head as if recounting a casual memory. “The person was already dead. Hit-and-run, I think. They were grasping it, so I took it.”

You say it in such a manner almost as if you are talking about the evening’s weather.

“What?” His grip tightened on the book. “You just. . . took it? Did you call anyone? Cops? Medics?”

“There were people already there,” you said with a shrug. “What was I supposed to do?”

What were you supposed to do!? Jimin stared at you, his pulse racing. “You could’ve. . . I don’t know!” Damn it. He definitely should’ve just attended the class which he felt like was important all of a sudden. There was a reason why he doesn’t ever visit libraries . “Done something instead of stealing a book from a dead person!”

You stood, brushing invisible dust off your coat. “I was planning to return it to their grave after I finished reading,” you said, your voice calm as ever. “But now it’s yours. So I guess that’s your responsibility.”

He gaped at you, his brown pupils shaking slightly. “No. No fucking way.” He held the book out as if it was some radioactive substance. Call him a lunatic, but he was already feeling it burn his hand. (Was he exaggerating? Maybe. But was he ready to accept the book for real? Fuck no.)

“I’m not keeping this!”

You smiled faintly, stepping away. “It’s already yours, Jimin.”

And then you leave, your footsteps barely audible.

Jimin found himself back in the library.

Not because he was bored. Not because he wanted to study — but because everything else was driving him nuts.

The book, Wuthering Heights, sat on Jimin’s desk back in his home like an accusation. He couldn’t bring himself to open it, no matter how hard he’d tried last night. Each time he felt his fingers itch to finally touch the book, his brain immediately imagined the lifeless hand that had clutched it last.

By nightfall, he couldn’t take it anymore. He drove to the cemetery, the book tucked under his arm, the cold slapping his skin like a belt.

Rows of graves had stretched before him, their names lost to time and shadow. He wandered between them, each step making him more impatient as he carried on. He felt like a halfwit. Who the fuck visits a cemetery to return a book? And why was he doing this?

He wasn’t scared of cemeteries by any means, but surely you don’t have balls of steel to be standing like a dumbfuck in the middle of a graveyeard at midnight without feeling anything. He didn’t even know what he was looking for — how could he?

He didn’t even know if the accident victim was buried here.

Fuck, he didn’t even know who was the victim in the first place.

He doesn’t exactly feel the most cheerful at the thought of so many lives being reduced to stones and dates.

Frustrated and uneasy, he’d left the cemetery, just wishing he’d never visited the library.

So the next day, he finds himself back in the library. He doesn’t know why — he could have just simply abandoned the book. Or just kept it under fate’s custody, because he surely 1) wasn’t a book nerd, 2) after knowing the source of the book, he definitely wasn’t interested in that book anymore.

Maybe he hopes to see you again, to demand some kind of explanation or even simply just return you the book. Only because he’s a decent human being and felt bad for leaving the book alone.

But you’re nowhere to be found.

“Shit,” Jimin muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. He slammed the book down on the nearest table, earning a sharp glare from the librarian. He waved her off with a sheepish smile but didn’t bother lowering his voice. That damn thing on the table felt like it was judging him with each step he took.

“What the hell am I even doing here?” he grumbled, flopping into a chair, truly exhausted.

”Jimin?”

He turned, or well, craned his neck up to see Namjoon standing a few feet away, an eyebrow raised in that familiar mix of confusion and mild disappointment, but he doesn’t look surprised.

Namjoon was exactly the type of a guy you would very much expect to see in a library. If he wasn’t wrong, he was a literature student with an endless supply of opinions, known for yapping on about bullshit Jimin really doesn’t care about, he was the last guy Jimin would want to run into.

Atleast, not now.

Namjoon adjusted his glasses as he glanced at Jimin.

“Did the sun rise from the west today?”

“What?”

“What is Park Jimin doing in a library?”

“Ha-ha, how funny.” Jimin shot back, rolling his eyes. “I was just, well, . . . . never mind.”

Namjoon pulled out a chair and sat across from him, his gaze flicking to the book on the table. “No seriously, what’s going on? You look, uh, kinda constipated.”

Jimin let out a frustrated sigh, leaning back in his chair. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

Jimin exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as he launched into the story. “Okay, so yesterday, I was in here, right? There was this girl. Very concentrated. She was just sitting there, reading this book.” He motioned to the paperback sitting between them on the table.

“And I thought, you know what, a conversation won’t harm anyone. But she seemed to not give a single fuck about me!” Okay, Jimin feels his cheeks slightly heating at the way he just said it.

Anyway..

“She didn’t even flinch. Just looked at me all calm and said I could keep it, tear it up, do whatever the fuck I want to.”

“Mhm,” Namjoon leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed.

“And then,” Jimin said, leaning forward as his voice dropped, making sure no one could hear them. “she tells me it’s not even hers. She said she found it, at a fucking accident scene. Like, a hit-and-run. She just took it. . . out of the dead person’s hands!”

Namjoon’s face paled, but Jimin didn’t notice. He was too busy rambling.

“And you just. . . took it?”

“I didn’t even want the damn thing!” Jimin snapped, jabbing a finger toward the table. “I don’t want my own course books. How the hell would I want a book which looks like something which was probably printed like what, centuries ago?”

“But she just dropped it on me. I thought, fine, I’ll go to the cemetery — because, apparently, that’s the only thing I could think of. But guess what? I don’t even know who it belongs to.” Jimin grits his teeth, taking in a cool breath. He cannot be losing his shit over a book.

“What was I supposed to do? Wander around like an idiot, asking no one in general if someone is missing a book?”

Uhh...

… . .

Okay.. was that too much?

Namjoon hasn’t replied. For someone who has a say in everything and anything, it feels strangely quiet to see the taller guy being absolutely quiet, and even a bit. . . pale.

“Joon?” Jimin frowned. “You look like you just got your balls kicked.”

Namjoon’s hand trembled as he reached for the book, but he didn’t pick it up. His voice was barely above a whisper, his pupils shaking woldly.

“Jimin... This book. Are you sure she gave it to you?”

Jimin throws a nasty glare his way, frustrated. “I’m fucking sure. She was right there.” He pointed to the seat by the window, almost as if pointing that way would have you sitting there once again. “Oversized sweater, baggy jeans, muddy boots. What the fuck do you mean?”

Namjoon swallowed hard, his eyes darting between Jimin and the book. Finally, he stood up, grabbing Jimin by the shoulders. His voice dropped low, steady but trembling at the edges.

“Jimin, listen to me. Do you remember when our lectures got canceled last month?”

“What?” Jimin blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. “I don’t even remember what I had for dinner last night. How the fuck wouldd I remember about lectures?” Jimin scowled. “What does that even have to do with the current topic?”

“They were canceled because of her,” Namjoon said, his grip tightening.

“Y/N. She died in a hit-and-run.”

?

“What?”

“A car hit her right outside campus and left her to die.”

Jimin shook his head, stepping back, an unamused laugh escaping his throat. “That’s not, ha, hah — she was here yesterday, Namjoon. And I talked to her.”

Namjoon’s voice cracked, but he pushed forward, firmly gripping Jimin’s shoulders. “I saw her, Jimin. I was there. She was lying in the street, and — and she was holding that exact book.”

“I remember it because we checked it out from the library together. But when the paramedics came, the book was gone.”

Jimin froze, his gaze blurring. No fucking way in hell. His heart pounded as his mind scrambled to process what Namjoon was saying.

“No.” His voice was barely a whisper. “That just doesn’t make sense. Stop fucking with me.”

Namjoon’s expression was grim, his voice low and firm. “You didn’t talk to her, Jimin. She’s gone. She’s been gone.”

“Okay, what the actual fuck are you saying?” Jimin snapped, his heart racing now. “She was literally sitting here yesterday. Like, I swear on everything, she was here. I talked to her.”

Namjoon’s face morphs into a look of pure defeat, his grip loosening on his shoulders.

“And I saw her die.”

Jimin felt the bile rise up to his stomach. “Bro,” he whispered, his voice shaky. The room felt like it was spinning, and he was being forced down to stand with his wobbly limbs.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Just open it. It’s just a book.

The lamp’s light flickered as Jimin sat at his desk, hyper aware of everything around him — even the faint ticking of his table clock. He flexed his fingers, trying to shake off the nerves, but his palms were clammy, and the tremor in his hands wouldn’t stop.

He exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. “It’s just a book,” he muttered, but it was something he himself couldn’t believe.

The room felt unnaturally quiet as his fingers brushed the cover.

The rough texture sent a chill skittering up his spine. Never ever even in his wildest dreams had he even thought that opening a book would make him shit his pants, but here he was. Slowly, he peeled it open, the spine creaking softly in the stillness.

The words were there, faint but deliberate, etched on the first page in a beautiful cursive drawl.

Return it to me.

He blinked, his mind scrambling for logic, for reason, but then his gaze dropped lower. There, written in neat, bold letters, was a date.

It wasn’t yesterday’s. It wasn’t today’s either.

It was tomorrow.

a/n : poor mimi 😔 if you enjoyed reading this, let me know what you think 💬 here’s the anon feedback box for you :-)