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The hum of the library, a steady backdrop to most of my days, was punctuated by the occasional whisper or rustling of pages. Libraries are meant to be places of silence, but for me, they were anything but quiet. As I moved through the aisles, sliding books back into their designated slots, I constantly fought against the intrusive thoughts of the patrons who frequented Crestwood's library. Still, I’d rather be here than anywhere else. Like most literature lovers, the library felt like home to me.
Not their spoken thoughts, no. It was their private musings, fears, and sometimes even their desires that reverberated in my mind.
For someone like me, who preferred the steady predictability of book covers and carefully cataloged knowledge, it was a constant challenge to tune out the tumultuous orchestra of human emotion and sentiment.
I'm the boy-next-door type – glasses, a penchant for button-up shirts, and a stutter that appears particularly when I’m anxious. Many might overlook me, but if they knew the depth of secrets I unintentionally uncovered daily, they'd probably be mortified.
Hell, I’m mortified half the time.
Attempting to drown out Mrs. Harmon's concerns about her son's grades and Mr. Jenkins' internal debate on whether to propose to his girlfriend, I discreetly slid a wireless earbud into my right ear. The soothing tones of a classical piece began to play, calming my frayed nerves. But even Beethoven couldn't mask everything.
A miss was as good as a mile.
"Should I ask him out?" a young woman's thoughts echoed, tinged with hope and anxiety. I glanced over to see Jennifer, a college student who was often at the library, staring at a guy across the room. I quickly looked away, the weight of her vulnerability pressing on my chest.
It wasn’t right, this invasion of privacy. But what could I do?
I tried humming softly along to my music, hoping to distract myself further. If only I could simply switch off this... ability. If only I could be normal. How much simpler would life be then? I could chat with friends without knowing their every worry and interact with library patrons without the weight of their world on my shoulders.
A soft chime pulled me from my introspection.
I glanced down at my wristwatch. Lunchtime. Grabbing a book, I'd been meaning to read, I headed to the library's quaint courtyard. The open space, filled with greenery, was my sanctuary. Here, the thoughts of others seemed somewhat muted, the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves offering a welcomed distraction.
Finding my usual spot under an old oak tree, I opened my book, but my mind kept drifting. What would it be like to live without this burden? Would I be happier? I sometimes fantasized about moving to a remote village, somewhere where I wouldn't be overwhelmed by the cacophony of thoughts.
My sandwich lay forgotten next to me as I lost myself in the book’s world, a place where everything was linear, and predictable. A place unlike my reality.
Suddenly, a clear thought broke through, startling me. "That's Ben, right? The librarian? He seems...different."
I looked up to find a young woman observing me from a few benches away. Her head was tilted slightly, her expression curious. She was new, or at least I hadn't heard her thoughts before. I quickly looked back down, hoping my earbud and book would signal my desire for solitude.
But the thoughts continued, "He's cute, in a nerdy sort of way. But there's a depth to him, something...hidden."
Flustered, I packed my things, ready to retreat back to the library. But as I stood up, our eyes met. She offered a friendly smile, her thoughts radiating genuine interest.
Clara. Her name is Clara.
And for the first time in a long while, I found myself genuinely curious about someone else's story, not because it was involuntarily thrust upon me, but because maybe, just maybe, there was someone who might understand. Or at the very least, someone who wanted to.
Returning her smile with a hesitant one of my own, I headed back inside, the weight of the day feeling a bit lighter. I was too lame to talk to her, but at least someone noticed me. Talking to her would be a disaster. I was sure my damn stutter would screw things up but hey, this was just as good an ending.
Yeah, I was good at endings. Just not beginnings.
I disappeared into the break room and continued to devour my sandwich. It sucked, but it was about what I could afford. Nothing like peanut butter and jelly to keep me alive.
My thirty-minute break was over before I knew it. The other assistant, a snot of a girl named Heather, came in to remind me that it was my turn to man the counter.
The hum of the library provided a gentle background symphony to my days, offering a faux semblance of peace. Libraries, for many, are havens of solitude. But when you can hear the thoughts of others, silence takes on a different meaning.
I adjusted my glasses, pushing them up my nose as I moved through the aisles. Mrs. Pritchett, a regular, was deeply engrossed in her mystery novel. “I bet it was the butler,” she pondered to herself. Across the room, young Timmy struggled with his math homework, his thoughts a mix of frustration and determination.
Poor kid. Been there, done that.
The click of heels echoed through the library as the door opened. I recognized the face but couldn’t immediately place her name. I'd often seen her around town and occasionally here in the library. She approached the counter, a stack of brightly colored flyers in hand.
"Good afternoon, Ben," she greeted warmly. "It is Ben, right?”
“Yes. That’s...right.” I kept my answers short to avoid getting launched into a stuttering frenzy.
“I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Dr. Emily Thompson. I’m starting a new group at the community center. Mind if I leave some of these flyers here?"
My instinctual response was to reach into her thoughts. It was something I often did unconsciously, a knee-jerk reaction. I glanced at the flyer on top.
MEET UP! SUPERNATURAL SUPPORT GROUP—EVERY WEDNESDAY NIGHT.
Was she for real with this? I was intrigued and definitely had to peek into her mind. I wasn’t disappointed.
I hope this helps someone; these folks deserve understanding. Even if I don’t have answers.
Dr. Emily Thompson’s thoughts were genuine and clear. I blinked, momentarily caught off guard. The authenticity of her sentiment was refreshing.
“Of course, Dr. Thompson," I replied, taking the flyers and arranging a neat stack on the counter. "Sounds like a good...good idea." I had questions, lots of questions but again, I didn’t want to get stuck in a stutter.
Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. "Thank you, Ben. I really appreciate it." She turned to leave, but a wave of curiosity washed over me.
Without thinking, I reached out. "Dr. Thompson? Is it...for anyone? I mean, can anyone join the group? Is there a fee?"
Her gaze softened. "No fee. Yes, Ben. Anyone who feels they might benefit from it is welcome. There's no judgment."
I nodded slowly, taking it in. "Thank you," I murmured.
After she left, I took one of the flyers, folded it carefully and tucked it into my pocket. My shift came to an end with the usual rhythm of returned books and whispered questions, but my mind was elsewhere. The thought of a group, a space where one might be understood without judgment, was tantalizing.
That evening, as I settled into my worn-out armchair, the flyer resurfaced. Unfolding it, I read the details again.
Supernatural Support Group for Supernatural Experiencers.
I sighed, staring at the ceiling. For years, I had kept my ability hidden, fearful of being misunderstood or labeled. But the prospect of finding understanding, even acceptance, was enticing.
Tucking the flyer into my favorite book as a makeshift bookmark, I made a decision.
Maybe it was time to step out of the shadows. Maybe it was time to find my own support.
