Existentialists.

                “Why do you always look so angry?”

                “Why do you always breathe my air?”

                Anthony sighed and turned away from his bitter and selectively misanthropic friend. The tomes on the bookshelves near them trembled when he leant on the glazed walnut, his eyes shifting over the titles of novels, encyclopedias and fantasies he had never, and would never, read. Tolkien, Dostoevsky, Austen: these names were foreign to him, as if written in ancient dialects or extraneous languages. His dark eyes snapped back to the apathetic individual opposite him. Anna was simply a brick wall. That was the most accurate description of her character that he could conceive of at that moment.

                “I don’t know what she wants from me.” He remarked, helplessness clinging to each word. Anna continued stoically to leaf through the journal she was perusing. Anthony’s body lurched forward. “Damn it, Anna.”

                She looked up. “I thought I’d criticized your use of the books as an emotional outlet.”

                “No-one even knows who Virginia Woolf is anymore.”

                “Again, educated people do, Anthony.”

                “And now you’re calling me an idiot again, that’s grea-“

                Anna’s saintly patience prevented her from bringing the bookshelf down on his head. “You clearly have something on your conscience, so can you just spit it out already?”

                His fleeting anger dissipated and he leant back against the polished shelves, disappearing into a deep though. Anna returned to the book, her thoughts descending back into the worlds of science, mathematics and fiction.

                The library was almost silent except for the occasional brushing of pen to paper, the occasional sneeze from the librarian’s desk, the occasional tension of the hardened walnut stretching beneath the weight of the books. At moments like these, the university campus felt devoid of humanity – a delicate birdsong trailing on the velvet breeze of autumn. The leaves were falling already, like golden breadcrumbs leading to places full of mystery and secluded beauty. It was the time of year when the freshmen could still be seen crossing the grounds in a state of confusion as they struggled to locate lecture halls, classrooms, laboratories, or, more likely, the various pubs and restaurants that were spread out across the entire university.

                For a brief moment, the works of Tesla and Curie ceased to matter. The endless storm of suspicion and doubt withdrew. Anna closed her eyes on the pages, and Anthony on the questions. Somewhere beneath the iron-work windows, a group of elderly professors laughed.

                Anthony sighed deeply. “I think she’s going to leave.”

                “Does she have a good reason?”

                “Is that really the important part, Anna?”

                The fire in her eyes opened onto his. “You tell me.”

                He looked away, his mind darkening. “That wasn’t the same thing."

                "How can you say tha-"

                Anthony interrupted her again. "Hazel died, Anna. It wasn't the same thing."

                Anna sat back, her tone steady. “No, it was not – but she left for no reason. And her decisions made no difference to what happened.”

                More taciturn stares. A silent revolution was passing between them, a desperate need for the conversation to remain on topic before it spiraled out of either of their reaches. Then again, thought Anthony, he’d never imagined a situation that Anna couldn’t have handled.

                Brick wall.

                “What are you going to gain from speaking to me? Converse with your herb.”

                “Seriously, that joke is getting so old.”

                “I still find it amusing.”

                “Oh, emotion, we need to document this moment.”

                “Anthony, I will ask you again: what is it you want?”

                He stepped around the table and sat directly opposite her, his dark brown eyes engaged on hers. “I want some help, alright? You don’t talk much, you don’t voice your opinions on anything personal, and popular myth has it that you don’t even have a soul, but just for once, I’d like some goddamn emotion. Maybe a little bit of advice. And hell, while we’re at it, let’s throw in some sympathy, because God knows I never get anything other than fucking insouciance from you!” By the time he reached the end of his rant, his voice had elevated to decibels perceived as unacceptable within a sanctum of literature such as this, causing Anna to extend a violent slap to his head.

                “If you do not calm down, I will personally commandeer your flight path out of that window – and I’ll make sure to hit a couple of trees along the journey.” Her voice adopted the familiar tone that commanded a sure respect and obedience from the person she was speaking with. His vigor left him and he drew quick breaths to slow his heart rate.

                The colour began to leave his features. “What the hell do I do?”

                “Talk.”

                “I am talking-“

                “To her. For such a potentially intelligent human being, you really do lack common sense.”

                “But-“

                Anna slammed the book shut with a deafening pound. “Why does everything always have to be a goddamn scene with you, Anthony? Can’t you ever come in here and articulate your questions in a way I could comprehend?” Anthony blinked. Although she was right, as she usually seemed to be, his emotions reached a new pinnacle. The way she was glaring at him with her collected exasperation set off another wave of ambivalent rage inside of him. He threw his arms up.

“She’s going to leave me, Anna!”

                “Why do you think that?” Anna snapped.

                He paused before shaking his head in exasperation and leaning back, eyes tearing with frustration. “Because she said it herself. She said she wants to leave. I told her we could go somewhere for a few weeks just to get away, but she wants to go alone.”

                Anna rolled her eyes. “She wants some solitude. You can’t give her that without your severe attachment issues interfering?”

                “I don’t have-“

                “Don’t even go there.”

                “Anna, I’m just… I’m at a loss, alright?” Anthony’s anger left him in a sigh. She looked closely at him, taking in the spectral skin that closely enveloped his previously substantial figure. He was thinner. Haggard. Stretched.

                Anna’s gaze drifted back to his absent expression. “She’s not going to leave you. No, listen-“ She interrupted as he opened his mouth to protest once more. “I know Sage. She’s free, uninhibited; she will fly wherever the wind takes her. You need to ask yourself whether you want to follow.” For the first time since he walked into the library, there was a peaceful expression on his face – the dark lines disappeared from underneath his eyes, and his mouth curled slightly upwards in a smile. Anna raised an eyebrow.

                He closed his eyes. “I’d follow her to hell and back.”

                “Then get ready.”

                Both of them jumped as a third voice rang clear from behind the Biochemistry journals. Jason ran a trembling hand through his messy hair and stood quietly while they waited for him to continue.

                “Because you might have to before this is all over.”

                Anthony frowned. “What are you talking about?” Anna remained silent, her eyes fixed on Jason’s.

                “Medea just got her tests back.”

                “No.” Anthony stood up. Jason took a step back, the heavy floorboards creaking under his weight, a cracking in the supports.

                Anna kept her eyes transfixed on Jason, and with a slow and steady rhythm, she began to shake her head, as if in shock. The library was taciturn, as if every elemental creation in the room understood that this was a moment for mourning. All they could hear was the beeping of books being scanned by the librarian’s swift hands. Anthony clasped his hand on Jason’s shoulder, a gesture meant to support, but instead left the other feeling even more structurally damaged. He kept his eyes on Anna’s, as if trying to project every last slither of despair and anger onto her – she remained stoic, her usually hardened nature softening to let his thoughts in.

                A single sentence, yet it kickstarted the repair. Anna swallowed. “Where is she?”

                They left the journal on the table. Later on, the librarian would become irritated at having to walk around and clear up the mess on the tables. She would complain and the task would become laborious. But afterwards, she would go home to her husband and children. Perhaps cook dinner, maybe watch a favourite television show. Live peacefully. Healthy. 

                And outside the wind would carry the birdsong onwards.