Some people are easy to read. They wear their emotions like bright banners, open and fluttering in the wind. You see their smiles, their tears, their anger — all laid bare, no deciphering required.
But then there are the others.
The ones who are closed books.
The ones who make you wonder.
She is one of them.
The girl sitting at the back of the room, her nose buried deep in a novel you’ve never heard of. You notice her sometimes — not because she demands attention, but because she doesn’t. There’s a quiet gravity to her, a sense of almost knowing her, only to realize you don’t know her at all.
You might try to approach. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, ask a question, throw a casual “Hey, what are you reading?” her way.
She’ll smile politely.
She might even answer.
But the moment you think you’re close to stepping into her story, you realize: all you’ve touched is the cover.
She remains closed — not rudely, not coldly — but like a book that chooses when, and if, it wants to be opened.
There’s a certain beauty to that kind of mystery, but also a certain sadness.
Because some stories aren’t hidden to be arrogant. They are hidden because once, when they tried to tell them, no one listened.
Or worse — someone looked inside and decided they didn’t like what they saw.
And so, over time, she learned.
She learned to close herself up gently, protectively. To dance across pages only she could see. To paint herself into verses, spill herself into hidden songs, tuck parts of herself between the margins of conversations no one knew to read between.
It’s not that she doesn’t want to be known.
It’s just that knowing her isn’t easy.
There is no shortcut, no cheat code, no quick fix to unlocking her chapters.
You have to be patient.
You have to be careful.
If you rush in — if you pull too hard at the locks she’s set — you’ll find yourself holding nothing but silence. She’ll vanish before you can ask why. She’s mastered the art of slipping away, fading into corners where no one thinks to look.
But if you stay — really stay — you might see it.
The flicker of trust.
The gradual unfolding.
The soft, slow blooming of a girl who has spent her whole life learning that maybe, just maybe, she’s worth being known.
You might discover that her mind is a labyrinth of impossible dreams and half-written poems.
That her silences are not empty but brimming — with thoughts she’s too scared or too tired to speak out loud.
That her laughter, when it comes, is the kind of rare and reckless thing that feels like a blessing.
You’ll learn her favorite words, her invisible scars, the books that made her believe in magic again.
You’ll watch her map out her world not in bold declarations, but in careful details — the playlist she made you, the handmade bookmark tucked into your bag, the slightly too-long text she deleted three times before sending.
And if you’re patient enough — if you’re kind enough —
you’ll realize that every glance she shares, every small confession she dares to make, is a gift.
A page turned just for you.
It’s easy to give up on people like her.
To sigh, to step away, to say, “She’s too complicated,” or “I don’t get her.”
But here’s the truth: some books aren’t meant to be skimmed.
They are meant to be read slowly, carefully, with reverence.
They are not for everyone — and that’s not because they aren’t worth it.
It’s because the ones who stay long enough to understand are the ones who deserve to know.
So if you ever meet her — the girl who looks away a little too quickly, who speaks in half-smiles and hidden metaphors —
know this:
You’re not just meeting a person.
You’re meeting a story that’s still being written.
A story that could change your own.
If you dare to stay, if you dare to read,
she might just let you.
And you might just find that the quietest ones hold the loudest galaxies inside them —
waiting for someone to care enough to listen.