The Lie I Told Myself

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” The words escape my mouth easily. How would this be the place I’m at? Of all the people you’d expect to be here, my name would not be on that list. I might not have much experience with these places, but I do know the shelves don’t normally move. But hey, I could always be wrong. There would also be more lighting. The air feels too still, like the whole place is holding its breath. Even the shadows look organized, lined up neatly between the shelves like obedient soldiers.

Where am I? Well, of all the places I could be, I’m in a library.

A library.

“Huh. Ironic,” I mutter.

The shelves of books seem unending. They might be, for all I know. It’s like a maze; nothing appears different from the last shelf I saw five minutes ago. I sit down, leaning lightly against a shelf. “How am I this unlucky?” I whisper in disbelief. A faint creaking echoes somewhere, and it makes me shiver.

I stand and look around, but all I see are more shelves. I walk down an aisle branching off from the main one. It smells like old books, and I want to sneeze in defiance of this place. But I can’t even will myself a sneeze. Some books are thick, some thin, some tall, some colorful, but in reality, they’re all the same. Just paper with meaningless words. Different words, but not really.

“Wow, they must clean this place well. There’s not one piece of dust anywhere.” I run my hand along the shelf, amazed by the strangeness.

“Shhh.”

The whisper is so soft it almost seems unreal.The whisper slides across my skin like a cold draft, even though the air doesn’t move. My hands fly to my mouth as I look around wildly. I swallow hard, my fearful confusion turning into slightly angry confusion.

I don’t like reading or books or anything in that category. But even I can see this library is not normal. The only rule they seem to follow is the shhh rule. Lights? No. Those must not be important. This is the most chaotic, disorganized, nightmare‑ish library I could imagine. What’s next, forcing me to read the books? I shiver at the thought. “Ughh,” I sigh.

Walking feels useless, but I feel a spark of excitement when I see the end of the aisle. I practically run, a smile forming, only for it to fall into a you‑have‑got‑to‑be‑kidding‑me expression within seconds. I’m back at the main aisle. Impossible.

I want to scream.

“Mmh, you have to be kidding me right now. How big is this place?”

“Shhh.”

“Shh? What does it matter? Am I interrupting the books or the shelves? Are they trying to sleep?” My annoyance distracts me for a moment.

“Shhh,” it repeats, almost mockingly.

Now I don’t know whether to laugh or push the nearest bookshelf over. I restrain myself despite the irritation. As I look around, something catches my eye, a book on the floor.

Carefully, I approach it. It has no title. No author. Just a strange, blank cover. But then again, what book isn’t kinda odd? I pick it up, unsure why I even bothered. Where could it belong? Reluctantly, I open it to look for clues. My fingers tremble. I don’t know why. It’s just a book. But something in me feels twelve years old again, small and stupid and hopeful.

Instead, the book glows softly in the dim light.

My breath catches.

This is not real. It can’t be.

Inside the book is a smaller version of me. A book in my hands, one I no longer remember. A smile on my face. But that can’t be real. I hate reading. Maybe it’s some exaggeration of a time I had to read. I don’t know. I don’t willingly read anything.

My heart pounds harder. My chest tightens. But the images keep playing.

Her crush walks up, and she takes too long to notice. She closes the book gently, a bigger smile meeting his wary glance. My face dims at the sight.

The book continues with care. She moves with excitement and grand gestures. Her face bright, her words tumbling out too fast. She barely stops to breathe as she explains the book.

He looks around, not paying attention. His posture slouches. When he finally looks at her, it’s like he’s staring at some odd clown, his expression painfully critical.

When she catches on, her joy falters. Her words slow. Soften. Fade. She laughs, shaking her head, offering an apology.

My stomach twists.

I tell myself this can’t be me, it’s a made‑up version, so the tears don’t fall.

I wish I could pretend I don’t know what happens next.

But I watch anyway.

He laughs at her.

Her friends join them. Friendly smiles, but a darkness settles over the conversation. He mocks her, throwing his hands around, pretending to hold a book, mimicking her excited expressions. Her friends laugh, glancing at her between moments.

He grabs the book. It falls from her hands easily.

He judges the book, and the people who read, tossing it to her friends. They chime in, playing into the joke. Laughing at her discomfort. Her unease.

She tries to laugh, but tears form.

The book slams shut and is thrown to the floor with a force I can’t muster.

A tear slides down my face. More beg to fall.

“It’s not me. I hate reading. It’s not me.” My chest still hurts, like the dream left fingerprints behind. I tell myself it means nothing. Dreams always lie. Memories do too, if you push hard enough. I take a deep breath and wipe the tears away with my sleeves. My eyes shut. My breathing steadies.

The library shifts violently. Lights flicker. The floor tilts. Books crash to the ground. The whisper returns, commanding the place into submission.

My eyes open to a dark room.

A familiar ceiling. The library is gone. I’m still haunted by that stupid glowing book and the world’s worst library. But dreams lie, and so do memories. My bed is soft beneath me. And, I let it go as my mind slips back into the blur, calling to the mindless places I won’t remember.