As the afternoon drags on, I find myself shelving books more slowly than usual.
The weight of each one seems greater, my arms tiring quickly.
In the quiet corners of the library, I encounter fewer people.
A few regulars nod in acknowledgment, their faces familiar and comforting.
But there’s no time for chatter, no space for confessions.
In these moments, I wish I could share my burden, speak aloud the fears that swirl inside.
Yet my voice remains silent, my worries unspoken.
Instead, I focus on the task at hand, moving from one shelf to the next.
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