text: By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. Standing on the rickety front porch of Reiner Hall, I could already see the top of the blaze from across the road, and down the open field in the center of campus. The annual Fall Fire Fest at Linfeld School was a tradition no one knew the true origin of. I like to imagine it was a wholesome gathering of students who enjoyed kicking off the season by coming together to enjoy a big bonfire together and catch up on each other’s summer happenings. If I close my eyes I can almost see the young men dressed in their slacks, high-end polos and fresh sweaters slung casually across their shoulders as they ambled in their brown leather loafers nearer to the fire’s warmth. Many of them are walking hand-in-hand with their steady girlfriends whose beauty is amplified by the warm orange glow of the massive bonfire. Instead, I open my eyes and see boys in dirty ripped jeans, fitted V-neck shirts, and over-priced sneakers carrying red solo cups filled with who knows what. It’s only just 7:30, but it’s already dark out. The street lamps along the busy main road and the giant blaze are the only sources of light, but the night is mild enough not to need a jacket. As I made my way to the street crossing, pressing the button to set off the blinking pedestrian crossing lights along the perimeter of the large yellow signs above, I adjusted my bag on my already sore right shoulder. With my laptop and British Literature anthologies in tow, that shoulder must be bearing a good 15 pounds of academia on it. Walking along the main path from the dorm halls across the road from campus, I start to smell the burning leaves. The smell is absolutely intoxicating and immediately transports me to childhood. The leaves poetically fall beside me from the trees lining the path almost as if purposely abetting my nostalgic reverie -- creating and then jumping into piles of leaves, fresh notebooks, new shoes, and a new year of teachers and books to read. A time of simple pleasures. A time of innocence and hope unencumbered by pain. A time before time meant anything other than when to eat and sleep. The approaching library doors ended my depressing musings for the moment. I quickly scanned the first floor -- not a single person was in the library other than the girl behind the desk. I could sit anywhere, but I know I’d just sit in my usual spot. Walking up the stairs to the third floor, I made my way to the table closest to the furthest window and started unpacking the contents of my bag. My laptop quickly awoke and my assignment was already up on the screen awaiting my return. Finding the correct place in my notes, I reread the section circled in red pen and heavily underlined in thick black pen strokes: “don’t restrain your voice.” Those were the exact words my advisor used. Her advice wasn’t totally wrong -- I was restrained, but it wasn’t a voice issue. Restraining your voice insinuates that you know what you want say, but purposely aren’t saying it. But my problem is really a perspective issue, in that I have none. Just as I was about to awake my now sleeping computer, I noticed someone at the very last cubicle seat at the opposite end of the room. He seemed to be frantically rifling through his worn backpack in the hopes of uncovering whatever item it is that he needed, but to no avail. His thick rimmed glasses were slightly askew and his dark wavy hair was flatteringly tousled, adding to the overall frenetic effect. Returning to my laptop, I opened up a new tab in the browser and began typing. Before I could finish though, the guy across the room somehow silently transported himself right next to my table, startling me. I must’ve shown my surprise because he looked at me contritely when he spoke. “Hi, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I was just over there looking for my notebook when I remembered I was sitting over here earlier today, so I thought I’d come over to look for it here.” Pausing to catch his breath briefly he hurriedly continued, “No one is ever in the library on a Friday night especially on Fall Fest night, so I didn’t notice you over here until I was right up on you.” He blushed at his blundered use of the common college colloquialism. He started to mutter something to clarify what he meant, but I spoke before he could further embarrass us both. “I haven’t seen a notebook, but I only just got here. Feel free to take a look,” I said uninterestedly as I returned to my laptop. He must’ve noticed my massive anthologies next to me on the table because he said, “I’m guessing that isn’t casual Friday night reading,” as he nodded his head toward the books and smirked at his own humor. He was so close I could see his eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiled. It gave him the effect of age even though he clearly wasn’t older than nineteen and looked barely over sixteen. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I wasn’t in the mood for any talk, really. Isn’t that the point of being in the library on a Friday night? It’s very clearly a loner move. I didn’t want to be unfriendly, I just wanted to be left alone. “No, but I have read most of them for pleasure already,” I said with a quick glance in his direction, and then just as quickly returning to my computer screen. “Oh yeah? I guess I have too,” he said with a casual shrug, his frayed backpack strap slipping off his right shoulder. He removed the remaining tattered strap from his shoulder and placed the backpack on the chair across from me. He bent down to look beneath the table, presumably for his lost notebook. “I don’t know where it could’ve gone. I know I had it with me earlier. I remember writing in it over here,” he said distractedly as he pointed to the tabletop to the left of where he was standing. I didn’t respond because I didn’t know how to. Was he looking for something comforting like, ‘I’m sure it’ll turn up’ or ‘I always lose things too” or was he just musing out loud without expecting a response? Realizing he was just standing there distractedly for an awkward beat, he forced himself to snap out of his inner replay of his day. “Well, no luck here,” he shrugged. “But listen, thanks for letting me invade your space to look for it. I’ll leave you and old Ollie to it.” I looked at him puzzlingly. I was beginning to be concerned about his sanity -- does he see another person sitting at the table with me and named him Ollie? Seeing that I didn’t have a clue what he was getting at, he chuckled and said, “Sorry, I call my British Literature anthology old Ollie, sometimes old chap. It’s something my father used to do.” His eyes crinkled again warmly as he smiled at the memory. I’m not sure why, but I couldn’t help but smile back. I guess I’m a sucker for a guy who has a nice relationship with his father seeing as that’s a completely foreign concept to me. “Anyway,” he continued not at all awkwardly, “I’m sorry again for interrupting. Maybe I can make it up to you with a cup of coffee?” He said as he looked at me expectantly. I didn’t know what to say. Actually, I didn’t want to say what I was thinking, which was, ‘Why in the hell would I go get coffee with someone whose name I don’t even know and who just stumbled upon me five minutes ago?’ But even more confusingly, what I found myself wanting to say despite what I was thinking was, ‘Sure, why not.’ I mean in all honesty I know I’m not going to get anything accomplished with this paper tonight, and if I’m being really honest with myself, I’m terribly lonely. As much of a loner I’ve become in the past few years, it’s certainly not out of enjoying being alone. It’s just how it always ends up being, so I’ve tried to accept it -- embrace it even. All of this was running through my head while he was standing in front of me, which made me realize I waited way too long to respond to him now. He didn’t seem to mind waiting. Instead, he took the opportunity to take a seat across from me, turn to my anthology and say, “As long as that’s okay by you, Ollie.” I genuinely chuckled at his joke, which put me momentarily at ease. Figuring I have nothing to lose, I smiled and said, “What makes you think the girl who’s in the library on a Friday night would be the same girl to take you up on your invitation?” He contemplated my question for a bit. To him, it seemed there was a right and wrong way to answer -- that it was a test and if he passed, I’d consent to coffee. But he was wrong, it wasn’t a test, not for him anyway. Before he could answer, I continued, “I don’t even know your name.” His response was immediate: “Knowing my name won’t make a difference though, will it?” He was right, it wouldn’t. Knowing his name was meaningless. Knowing his name wouldn’t tell me if he was a good person, or if he was worthy of having coffee with. Knowing his name didn’t really tell me anything about him other than what his parents decided they wanted to call their small, squishy baby over nineteen years ago. As if reading my mind, he looked directly in my dark brown eyes and said, “Not knowing something is still knowing something else. You know?” I did know. I knew exactly what he meant. Looking back into his disarmingly, precociously compassionate eyes, I reached for my anthology and fingered the thin pages along the bottom corner. I could tuck the book back into my bag, close my laptop and leave my favorite table on the third floor of the library empty, to silently keep the desolate rows of books company. I could also stay and sit contentedly knowing that not knowing something is still knowing something else.