Books, Blunders, and a Beating Heart

"I can’t believe it. She thinks I’m losing her."

My college friend, Jerry, looked tired and troubled that afternoon. At the end of a semester, we all get a bit worn out, but there was something else on his face—a strange unease, as if he’d just received some heart-wrenching news. We were sitting on a quiet corner of campus, on the bench behind the library, where the autumn breeze was gently rustling the leaves.

"Come on, Jerry," I said, "you’re like this every semester’s end. Your heart’s full of shiny dreams—deep talks about books, maybe some fascinating dialogue about Rumi or Jane Austen—when you look at the syllabus. By midterms, you’re irritable. Before finals, you’re ready to give up entirely. It’s our old tradition. Calm down."

Jerry looked at me like I’d just broken his favorite pen. There was a strange shimmer in his brown eyes, trembling like the leaves in the sunlight.

"It’s not a joke, Alina," he said, setting his bag down on the ground. "This isn’t just some typical semester fatigue or shattered dreams. Do you remember last week when we were talking about *Pride and Prejudice*? You were defending Elizabeth Bennet’s independence, saying she stood by her principles—not a common take, but an interesting one—and I was going on about Darcy’s quiet pain, his loneliness, and the burden of love?"

I nodded with a smile. When Jerry talked about books, there was a passion in his voice that always drew me in. The trick to pulling him out of his thoughts was simple: just get him talking about a story or a character. He had this odd theory about *The Great Gatsby* that he could ramble on about for hours. I was about to nudge him that way, but he was saying something else—maybe a confession.

"Yeah," I said, "I think we went from Austen to Hemingway that day. I’d had way too much coffee; my head was spinning."

"Right. Well, I mentioned it in my lecture afterward. It was about *Wuthering Heights*. I was so excited about Heathcliff’s raw intensity and Catherine’s selfishness, how their love destroys them. I said love can be a curse too, and I think I mentioned your name—that you made me think about it."

I laughed. "My name? In class? You’re really crazy, Jerry."

He stood up and walked to the other end of the bench, running a hand through his hair. Then he came back and sat close to me, so close I could feel the faint warmth of his breath. There were autumn leaves tangled in his hair, and his eyes had an odd gleam.

"Yeah, Alina. I said, ‘Alina made me think about how dangerous love can be.’ And then I heard myself, apologized to everyone, but I could tell they were all looking at me strangely. They thought I’d lost it—or maybe lost my heart."

He reached out a hand toward me but stopped, as if unsure whether he should touch me. His voice was trembling, and there was no sound but the rustling of leaves in the breeze.

"So what?" I said, leaning toward him. "We all get tangled up sometimes. Our minds are full of stories and characters, like stacks of books in the library. Last week, I said in class that Brontë wrote *Jane Eyre* when I meant *Wuthering Heights*. Someone left a ‘Professor Brontë’ note on my desk. They’re tough, but they forget. Don’t worry."

"I’m trying," Jerry said, "but today, during the final review, I told them to start with chapter five, and some guy said, ‘Sir, you forgot four!’ and everyone laughed. They think I’m really losing it. I started with five because it was more interesting, but they thought it was a mistake."

I looked at Jerry closely. He was lean, tired, a little disheveled. But there was that spark in his eyes I’d always liked. I put my hand on his, and he looked at me, surprised but relieved.

"You’re imagining things," I said. "They mess up too. They know we’re human. Relax." I gave his hand a light squeeze, and he smiled—a small, shy smile.

He stood up and grabbed his bag. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.

"You’re probably right," he said. "I’m tired and fed up with everyone saying every story’s about love. I’ll be fine after the break."

"See you tomorrow, Jerry," I said, brushing a leaf out of my hair.

"Goodnight, Alina," he said, then paused and turned to me. "You know, you really do make me think about things—more than just books."

And with that, he walked off, but I knew something had shifted between us—maybe a story was beginning, one we’d write together.