#smart ass

Ink Stains and Obsession

The library was silent, save for the soft rustle of pages turning and the distant hum of fluorescent lights. You sat at your usual spot, the far corner where the shelves seemed to close in around you like an embrace. Books piled high in front of you, their spines cracked with overuse, and your notes sprawled in meticulous handwriting across the table. The weight of an upcoming exam loomed heavy, but your focus remained sharp.

Unbeknownst to you, another presence lingered.

They sat two tables down, their head bowed over their own books, yet their eyes never fully on the text. Instead, they flicked up every so often, gliding over the edges of your figure with a precision that mimicked their academic prowess. To the world, they were perfect—always one step ahead in class, always producing work that bordered on brilliance. To you, they were competition, a constant shadow at your heels.

But to them, you were everything.

Their fascination had begun subtly enough—an innocent rivalry fueled by mutual ambition. But over time, that spark of competition festered into something deeper, darker. The way your pen scratched against the paper, your brows furrowing when a problem stumped you, the way your lips pursed in concentration—it was intoxicating. They memorized these details with the same fervor they reserved for their studies.

Their notebooks were no longer filled solely with equations and essays. Tucked between the pages were stolen glimpses of you—doodles of your profile, fragmented sentences that read like confessions, and the occasional pressed flower they’d picked from outside the library after watching you pause near the garden. They knew it was strange. They knew it was wrong. But the thought of stopping never crossed their mind.

They thrived in your frustration when their name appeared just above yours on the grade list. It wasn’t about being better—it was about being noticed. A flicker of irritation in your eyes, the set of your jaw—those moments were their trophies.

But it wasn’t enough.

Their obsession grew restless, gnawing at the edges of their restraint. When your pen rolled off the table and clattered to the floor, they were there before you could react, handing it back with a faint smile. Their fingers lingered against yours just a second too long, and though you pulled away quickly, the warmth of your touch burned into their skin.

They began leaving little things behind, small tokens only you would understand. A sticky note with a perfectly written formula on the page you’d struggled with, a reference book left open to the exact passage you needed. You never questioned it, too focused on your studies to notice the intricate web tightening around you.

It wasn’t long before the rivalry you cherished turned into something suffocating. Their gaze grew heavier, their presence more persistent. They seemed to be everywhere—on your walk to class, in the cafeteria, at the coffee shop you frequented. And yet, they never spoke.

They didn’t need to.

Their actions spoke volumes. The way their chair was always slightly angled toward you, the way they always chose the book directly beside yours on the shelf, the way they lingered in the library long after everyone else had left. It was as though they were carving out a space in your life, inch by inch, until there was no room left for anyone else.

The culmination came on the night before the final exam. You stayed late, the library nearly deserted. Your notes spread out in a chaotic array, your eyes heavy with exhaustion. You didn’t notice the shadow that moved behind you, didn’t feel the soft tug as they lifted the pen you’d left behind on the desk.

When you returned the next day, it was there—your pen, polished and pristine, placed atop a fresh sheet of paper. Scrawled in perfect handwriting was a single sentence:

“You’ll always come second to me—but only because I can’t bear to let anyone else have you.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of those words sinking in. You glanced around, but the library was empty. Still, the lingering sensation of being watched prickled your skin. You couldn’t shake the feeling that the rivalry you’d once thrived on had become something far more sinister.

And they?

Ellie: Yeah. What did you have for breakfast?

Tess: Nothing.