Mary was one of the librarian girls. She talked rarely, because she was always was thinking to herself, overthinking and weighing her options over every little decision. She was usually indecisive, was embarrassed easily, and rarely talked in long sentences. She preferred peace and quiet, where no one would disturb her. She had black shoulder-length hair that was straight, very dark brown eyes that almost blended in with her pupil, and glasses because she was near-sighted. She always wore a gold locket shaped like an open book, which she received from her late mother. She hoped to fill it with an author's photo that wrote the best story that she had ever read. And, as of now, it was still empty.

Mary also loved to read. She loved how every book had its own voice and how it is always different than another. No two books were the same, like how no two voices were the same. She was even a bit jealous on how books can tell their story in their voice, while she could hardly muster up the courage to talk.

Mary liked books. They didn't bother her. They didn't care what she was like. They were objective, not biased in their opinions. They accepted her for who she was, not for what they wanted her to be. In the eyes of books, she was perfectly fine.

Mary liked her daily routine. First, she would go to the school library at James Garfield High School and open it. She would collect ten to fifteen books of all types, place them on the middle table of the five tables in the center of the first floor of the library, and then she'd begin to read. Once the bell rang for the first class, she would leave her books on the table, and make her way out. First break would come, she would read, and then leave for her third class. She would then come back at lunch and read, over her own lunch, of course. Then, after her last class, she would come back to the school library once again. She would stay until she was finished reading, which ranged from five pm to seven pm. She would then turn off all the major overhead lights within the library, bring out a small lamp to her spot on the middle table. She would then do her basic homework (with plenty of research material at her disposal) before she would leave for the day no later than nine pm. She would repeat this process every school day.

On weekends and various holidays, she was much simpler. She would usually get twenty to thirty books, sit down, and just read. She was, as you can see, an avid bookworm, with no particular favorite genre. She really just loved them all.

The only person that Mary ever conversed with on a regular basis was one person, and one person only. The only human being she ever really opened up to, the person she was comfortable with, the person who she could count on and rely on for what she wanted, was all just one person.

And that was herself. In her point of view, the three siblings: me, myself, and I.

In the library, Mary's sanctum, sat another interesting character, who was a young author at the age of fifteen (just about seven months behind Mary, who was born in March), trying to make a name for himself. A frequent one-shot writer, he couldn't really stick to one story, as he'd become bored with it quickly. An author with a mind that would always switch lanes. Instead of staying on one track, he'd hop from station to station, hoping to find the route to success.

This man sat on the opposite side and end of the same table that Mary usually habitated, not really coming in contact with her. They hardly knew each other in fact. But, the fearless stroy writer, five-eleven and wavy brown hair with a pair of glasses, and the quiet story reader who also wore glasses, Mary, were the two main characters of a contradicting, star-crossed love chronicle.

"You know, books are unneeded. They are just there, taking up space. It would be easier to just digitalize everything." a voice said. Mary froze mid-sentence in her story. She then turned her head slowly clockwise. She pushed her glasses up with her index finer near the far bottom edge of the left frame and saw a boy, looking up at a bookshelf full of adult fiction novels. Mary swelled up in anger. How could someone insult books right in front of a massive bookshelf of them? It was like insulting the Navy in front of a hundred Naval officers. Mary then got up and stormed towards the boy, fully enraged now, ready to give him a piece of her mind.

"Books aren't needed anymore." the boy said. He was still loking at various spines of the books as Mary closed in on him. She raised her left hand. Readying her hand, palm open, she was about to slap the boy upside the head. She closed her eyes, mad to the brim, ready to overflow.

She then swung with all of her might. A quick jolt of some sort caused her to open her eyes. And, she gasped in surprise in what she saw.

The boy was still looking at the books. His left hand was clamped onto her wrist, like he had somehow heard it coming. It was like he was using a reflex or something to that nature.

"You try to slap just anyone?" the boy snapped, not lifting his gaze from the books. Mary was frozen in fear as the boy turned his head quickly to reveal his face. He was in a calm and angry state, maybe when like someone just lost their patience with you. He may have even been a bit annoyed.

The boy was very concise when he talked. He went quickly and didn't try to waste time or do anything special. He was just to the point and wanted a straight answer. Mary didn't know why, but she began to turn as red as a ripe tomato.

Mary had no idea what to do. She was angry, but she was scared. Was she supposed to apologize? Or, was she to quickly take her hand away and get angrier? After all, this guy just insulted books. It was like he insulted a whole group of individuals. And, that, no matter what the context, is inexcusable to insult something so openly to anyone as they have no reason to exist.

"Well?" the boy asked again. Mary still had no clue what was the best thing to do. It was do or die now. Her actions would not be held accountable right now. She met his gaze, brown hazel eyes that held an aura of mystery to them.

"Stupidhead!" Mary shouted, snatching her hand away. She then stormed off, leaving the mysterious boy in her wake. She had no time or patience left for him.