"When love itself is a person I dont think there is saving of someone."
Pairings : Writer!Leon x Muse!fem!reader
Summary : falling for your friend is mistake number one, second one is writing them hundreds of poem, and somehow Leon has managed to make both, whilst writing and hiding his poems for two years, he convinced himself hiding them was better than risking losing your friendship.
But truths have a way of surfacing no matter how deeply they're hidden. And sometimes, all it takes is one careless mistake for two years of secrets to come crashing down.
Wc : 9k
Genre : fluff, romance, college au, emotional, banter, friends, confession, language, yearner leon, slow burn, mutual pining
NOTE : THE POEM I INCLUDED IN THIS IS MY PERSONAL PROPERTY. ALL RIGHTS GO TO ME.
If you want me to add you to my taglist where; if I post new oneshots/headcanons or imagines of leon, you would get a ping, i would be happy to do so! Just comment if thats the case <3 anyways thats all ^^
The ambience of the college library was quiet silence lingered between the pages of books, while the hushed whispers of students filled the room, and somehow, it only made the feeling of longing grow stronger.
The smell of old books lingered in the air, wrapping around the space and settling into every corner, making the atmosphere feel both comforting and painfully nostalgic.
"Don't'cha think it's time you told her about your feelings?" Chris's voice rang in Leon's ear in a low whisper, making Leon sigh in frustration as he shot him a glare sharp enough to kill, chris just throws his hands in air in mock surrender, so leon just Ignore him, and return his gaze towards the notebook before him and clicked his pen repeatedly against the desk, trying to focus on what could only be described as his two hundred and ninth poem.
"No," Leon sighed. "You know how risky it is." he whispered the words back before finally turning his gaze toward Chris, who was sitting beside him.
Chris only bit his tongue trying not to say or perhaps push him off the desk. "It's been two years, Leon." Chris said putting his elbows on the desk in front of him.
"Don't I know it?, leon scoffs, finally turning away from chris and writing another verse of poem for you, the pen glided across the pages as if writing about you was the most natural thing, like sunlight falling on the trees, or breeze teasing the bare skin or truth of the person they hid.
The truth was, Leon knew exactly how painful it was to love you from afar. To write verses in notebooks instead of actual confession in front of you.
To pour everything he felt into notebooks that would never see the light of day, or at least that's what he thought, so he wrote what he felt, rather than saying the words out loud.
And, then he found himself wondering what could have been between you and him. Sure he knew the truth but that part of him kept wondering what if could have you completely?
Because sure, you were kind, beautiful, with doe eyes, and such soft features which honestly felt unfair every time Leon breathed near you. God he needed to get a grip on himself.
But putting all of it aside... Did you feel the same way for him? Probably not.
And thats wat Leon believed.
Because in reality, you were kind to everyone.
Thinking he was somehow special because of it; was honestly embarrassing. And what if he actually confessed? What if you thought the only reason Leon had ever talked to you, ever gotten close to you, was because he wanted something more?
The thought alone made his stomach twist in hundreds of knots with no way of untangling them, because it wasn't true.
He hadn't become your friend because he loved you. He loved you because you were his friend and falling in love was totally unexpected for him.
.
One of those reasons for falling in love with you back then was, Leon had been completely falling apart, barely holding himself together, as the pressure of university threatened to crush him, and Leon? He could not tell anyone, because he did not like being vulnerable, which made sense to him, Leon thought if he could not even tell you about his own feeling for years; how can he expect to open up about himself to anyone? and when everyone seemed to be busy with their lives, didn't know what was up with Leon, still you knew something was wrong, and you had been there for him, even with your own assignments, deadlines, and responsibilities, you still made time for him. You helped him study, listened when he needed to vent, and stayed beside him during some of his worst days.
It was such a small act of kindness, something you probably didn't even think twice about, but somehow it lodged itself deep inside Leon's heart.
Over time, that gratitude became affection, and that affection became something called: love. And now the feeling had rooted itself so deeply within him that, honestly, Leon didn't know how to stop loving you anymore. The truth was he would never want to stop even if he could.
And still, despite that Leon had hundreds more reasons not to confess, hundreds of reasons to keep his feelings buried where they belonged.
Yet somehow, none of those reasons ever stopped him from writing another poem about you.
"So, what's the count of this one, Mr. Romeo—" Chris began, finally deciding not to push Leon about confessing anymore. Unfortunately for Leon, fate seemed determined to make his life harder.
Before he could even reply, you appeared, and Leon immediately looked up with heart in his eyes, and letting the pen fall from his grip with a soft thud, while feeling everything he held inside burst out any second, still he kept himself in control but as he gazed at you he met your eyes with a bright smile of his own.
Your eyes crinkled at the corners as you greeted them, and for a moment, he completely forgot how to breathe, feeling his throat getting dry as you stood over them.
And god! It happened every single time. One smile from you and suddenly his brain stopped functioning.
"Hey," you said in a low voice, careful not to disturb the other students scattered throughout the library.
"Hey," Leon breathed back, a smile tugging at his lips, the single syllable coming out far rougher than he intended.
Fuck, he was a dumbass because, after two years of being friends, he still hadn't figured out how to act normal.
Then suddenly your attention shifted, straight toward the notebook sitting open in front of Leon, and your eye it suspiciously.
Leon's entire body tensed the minute he followed your gaze, for a second his entire life flashed through his eyes. Jeez, it could have been a disaster.
Your eyes narrowed immediately with curiosity, and before he could react, you leaned forward, extending your hands clearly, intending to snatch it from him.
No, absolutely not. Leon thought, but he was even faster, with reflexes born purely from self-preservation, he grabbed the notebook in front of him and shoved it way too quickly inside his jacket pocket.
The movement was so quick that it would've impressed a trained spy, and Chris behind Leon was actually quite entertained; he sat with a smirk on his face as he just sat there wondering how far it would go on.
You froze immediately, letting out a nervous laugh as suspicion crept into your expression. Your brows furrowed while you pointed a finger toward him. "What is that?" you asked, narrowing your eyes. "What are you hiding, kennedy?"
His heart nearly exploded inside his chest as he tried to come up with an excuse though on his tongue only thing remained was:
Two hundred and nine poems.
That was what he was hiding.
Two hundred and nine poems, all about you.
Chris immediately looked away, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.
Leon shot him a murderous glare before turning back toward you, his mouth finally forming a lie, "Nothing."
"Leon." That was all you said. Yet somehow, it was enough to make him visibly tense. He shifted nervously in his chair, his grip tightening around the pocket of his jacket where resided his notebook, as though he had been caught doing something he absolutely wasn't supposed to be doing.
He could practically feel the sweat forming on the back of his neck, and he gave it a little scratch. "It's just..." He cleared his throat and finally replied. "Grocery lists."
You stared at him, your jaw practically hanging open, because that was the dumbest lie someone had ever told you, and the dumbest lie you have ever heard.
Even Leon knew it was fucking pathetic.
"...Grocery lists?" you repeated slowly and exhaled sharply through your nose.
"Yep." Leon said confidently.
"In a notebook?" You raise your eyebrows at him, before flicking his forehead, and a playful smirk appears on your face.
"Ow." Leon groaned , and massaged it before letting out a chuckle which honestly meant ‘thank god’ she was distracted.
"Groceries… and they are so important that you're hiding them inside your jacket?" You pressed for the last time.
"Why aren't you in class?" Leon blurted out, immediately shifting the conversation before you could ask another question.
He was the dumbest man alive.
You glared at him for the obvious attempt at changing the subject before finally answering,and settling into the chair across from Leon and Chris.
Fuck.
Leon was absolutely fucked.
Because you weren't even doing anything. You were just sitting there, looking at him like any normal friend would, and somehow he was already drowning in every emotion he had spent two years trying to bury.
"I was looking for you," you said simply.
And just like that, his heart forgot how to function.
Chris scoffed loudly beside him, clearly seconds away from bursting into laughter. Leon immediately shot him a warning look, but it only seemed to make things worse. The bastard looked downright entertained.
Leon forced a smile anyway, even though he could feel himself, a second away to turn into a puddle.
Right. Now he thought about it, it was so silly of him because seriously? Groceries. He was stupid, god because of course he could not scream the fact that he had hidden over two hundred poems about you inside that notebook. Even if thats all he wanted.
Still? Grocery lists. Completely normal, everyday grocery lists. Hundreds of them. Totally believable.
Before Leon could say anything else, Chris suddenly stood up from his chair and immediately, Leon looked at him pleadingly, with ‘don't you dare look’ but Chris only offered him an apologetic smile before mouthing something about having to get to another class.
A class he probably didn't even have.
Then, without a shred of empathy he grabbed his bag and walked away, leaving the two of you alone. Very subtle.
’Motherfu–’ Leon rubbed his temple because Leon knew he was definitely having a conversation with him later.
Once Chris disappeared between the shelves, Leon let out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair. Almost immediately, his hand drifted toward the inside pocket of his jacket again, checking that the notebook was still there.
It was. Thank God.
"Why were you looking for me?" Leon asked, trying his best to sound normal, as he folded his hands in front of his chest.
"I need your help." you sighed thoughtfully.
Leon nodded immediately. "Anything."
His answer came so suddenly that it made you stare at him wide-eyed at his response, "I haven't even told you what it is yet." You shake your head.
"I know." Leon said, tilting his head and rubbing his nose.
"And you're already agreeing?"
"Yes, I agree with whatever you need help with."
The smile he gave you after saying that was so sincere that for a second you found yourself clenching your jaw.
Because why did he have to be like that?
So sweet.
So kind.
So... Leon.
You quickly shake the thought away before it could settle anywhere, and you turn your gaze away towards the shelves, finding the library books more interesting than it has been.
And as you sat across from him he waited patiently for your answer, then with a tired smile you turned to him, and your breath hitches as you find his earnest gaze already on you and somehow, sitting across him, with the warm library lights falling across his beautifully sculpted face and that stupidly sincere smile still lingering on his lips, you felt something unfamiliar stir inside your chest.
You didn't know if it was the warmth in the air or simply the effect Leon seemed to have on you, you couldn't quite tell. And you weren't sure you wanted to decipher that meaning behind it.
So you try to bury those thoughts away, because there was no way he would feel these weird emotions you were feeling.
So, instead you leaned forward across the table, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "We got assigned a project." You groaned dramatically and continued."We have to create a sculpture inspired by our muse and then write a poem explaining the artistic meaning behind it."
Leon nearly choked, because the universe really was testing him, "A what?" he repeated, immediately mirroring your posture and leaning forward across the table as though he had somehow misheard you. His brows shot up in disbelief while his fingers curled into fists onto the table as he swallowed.
You rolled your eyes, at his reaction, “well this is the project, create a sculpture of your muse and write a poem”, you repeated and sighed, "I was okay with art sculpture but you know I can't write poetry for the life of me," you chuckled and paused for a second, "But you're literally in a writing degree, so I thought maybe you could help?"
Leon coughed a little before tilting his head to the side but his gaze remained on you because god really loved doing this to him didn't he?
Fuck, and Leon was sure Chris would've paid money to witness this, to watch Leon suffer actively in front of you.
You pouted dramatically and dropped your forehead against the table.
Leon stared at you because if there was one thing Leon had accidentally spent the last two years doing, it was writing poems about his muse.
Who was currently sitting three feet away from him.
"I can't write poetry," you repeated miserably as you glanced up at him. "I mean, I can barely write an email without sounding like a malfunctioning robot."
"You don't sound like a robot,” Leon announced.
You rolled your eyes and let out a small laugh at his reaction. It was honestly kind of funny how he was trying to make you feel better about your writing, as if he genuinely believed you could pull this off on your own. "Anyway," you said, waving a hand dismissively before slamming your head gently on the table again, "you're literally a writing major. You're good at this stuff.” you said, closing your eyes.
Leon laughed immediately “good at this stuff” if only you knew.
The truth was, the reason Leon had joined a writing degree in the first place had very little to do with career prospects and far too much to do with you, because he had this idea of preserving things through writing, more specifically preserving you through it. Because he knew eventually people leave, breakup, move on, die. And one day he would die, and you would too, so he wrote endlessly, to capture your existence in the scriptures of his words forever in–the way you existed, breathed, helped people, the curve of your smile, maybe he knew it was obsessive but he liked knowing, that now when he died, you would exist for a long time, even after time forgets your name.
"Please help me," you pleaded, lifting your head, with that innocent smile of yours.
God that smile should honestly have been classified as a sheathed weapon.
"I already agreed." Leon grinned.
Your face lit up at once, and you grinned so brightly it felt like the sun was actually sitting in front of him.
And god help him, if he could be the reason you had smiled like that every time, Leon would've agreed to commit crimes if he get to see you like that.
.
.
The following weeks felt dangerously close to heaven, mostly because Leon spent nearly every day with you. Talking to you, you giving him your unfinished drafts, you talking about unrelated things, that Leon listened with utmost ‘focus’ because he could swear to lord he loved to listening to you--talking about everything.
It was perfect, it felt perfect, because that's all you needed, to be beside Leon, and in moments like this you started to notice how Leon made you feel and that thought was scarier than all.
Then as weeks moved forward; you both started meeting frequently.
Sometimes at the library.
Sometimes at cafés.
And now, somehow, whatever this was it had become Leon's favorite part of his life.
And now every afternoon Leon spent with you felt too short, every conversation ended too quickly, and every laugh you shared lodged itself deeper beneath his ribs.
He loved every second of it. Which was precisely why he didn't want the project to end. Because when it did, Leon knew everything would go back to normal. No more spending hours beside you in the art room. No more helping you with poems.
No more excuses to see you every day. Just the familiar distance he had spent two years pretending he could live with. The thought alone made something ache inside his chest. Still, Leon reminded himself that it wasn't over yet. There was still time.
A little more time with you. And if this was all he was ever going to get, then he intended to make the most of every remaining moment.
Then slowly after your classes, the two of you would disappear into one of the empty art room long after everyone else had gone home and you would quickly wear your apron and work on your sculpture while Leon occupied the seat beside you, claiming moral support because he knew absolutely nothing about art.
Most evenings just consisted of him watching you carve and shape the figure while offering the occasional useless suggestions that only made you laugh.
Leon spent most evenings like that watching you work on the sculpture. The funny thing was, you immersed yourself in clay the same way he immersed himself in poetry. And he loved seeing you like that; just watching you work, watching you focus.
It felt oddly intimate.
And he loved how you would lose track of time, completely focused on shaping details, while Leon sat nearby pretending he wasn't staring at you more than the actual project.
And honestly? He was reaching his limit. Because every day made it harder. Every laugh, every smile, every moment spent beside you only made the words sitting in his chest heavier.
Because he wanted to tell you. God, he wanted to tell you everything. Every feeling he had buried over the last two years, every poem hidden between notebook pages, every moment that had quietly carved itself into his heart. He was tired of carrying it alone. tired of swallowing confessions before they could reach his lips.
So one evening, while you stood beside the sculpture with tired eyes and clay smudged across your hands, Leon finally decided he couldn't keep it in anymore. His heart was lodged somewhere in his throat as he stood from his chair and walked toward you.
Step. Swallow. Step. Swallow.
Another step. This is it, nothing would happen. He thought.
As he finally stood beside you and you remained unaware, focused on your art work instead, everything suddenly felt too real to him, his breathing became ragged and god he felt like he was about to throw up because of the fact that he was seconds away from telling you how much he loved you.
How long he had loved you.
How every word he'd ever written somehow led back to you.
So he opened his mouth, finally: something to say, but then your hair slipped across your face, and you scrunched your face, and he swallowed hard and, just as he opened his mouth, mouthing ‘um’ and … you sneezed, shaking your head, before smudging the clay across your face, but you didn't care and kept working on the art before you.
The sound was so unexpected that Leon let out a soft laugh before he could stop himself. He swallowed again, because it was a ‘sign’ from the universe that maybe just maybe, it wasn't the time yet.
And just like that, the confession died in the back of his throat.
Then painfully every word he had been preparing to say dissolved before it ever had the chance to exist. And Leon swallowed them all down and, instead of saying what he truly wanted to, he reached forward almost absentmindedly and tucked the loose strands of hair behind your ear.
The gesture was so natural that neither of you seemed to process it at first. Then suddenly realization struck him, and he pulled his hand back as though the contact had burned him.
The room fell almost painfully quiet after that.
You immediately looked up from your work, your breath catching as you realized what had just happened.
And suddenly you realized Leon was standing far too close to you, close enough for you to notice how broad his frame was as it towered over you, close enough to see the way his blue eyes seemed to hold entire oceans inside them, close enough to notice the way he swallowed, like there were words trapped behind his lips that neither of you knew how to say.
For a moment neither of you moved, then Leon licked his lips, “sorry”, he murmerred , his chest heaving rapidly as you just stared at him then your gaze dropped towards his lips.
Fucking hell.
The room seemed to burn in the embers of a tension that neither of you acknowledged, and suddenly everything felt awkward.
Mostly because all you could think about was kissing him. The realization hit you so hard that it nearly made you step back.
Because friends weren't supposed to think about things like that. Friends definitely weren't supposed to stare at each other's lips and wonder what would happen if they leaned in just a little closer.
The thought was useless, and entirely unhelpful. So instead, you quickly lowered your gaze and muttered a quiet, "Thanks," before turning your full attention back to the sculpture, anything was better than letting Leon see the heat rushing into your face.
Leon just gazed at you in confusion before stepping back from you, but what Leon didn't realize was that you were completely red.
Because the truth was becoming impossible to ignore.
That you craved him too.
But for Leon; all he knew was you didn't.
But? The truth was? You wanted him.
You wanted him far more than a friend should.
But God...
What if he didn't feel the same?
.
After that day, silence became its own language between the two of you, and somehow settled into every afternoon spent in the art room, then in every shared glance, every unfinished sentence.
Somehow, it felt like the only thing keeping you close without forcing either of you to acknowledge what was quietly growing between you.
Leon spent those days beside you like a man carrying a secret too heavy for his own chest, while you carried one of your own.
There was another thing that no one knew: that the face which was slowly emerging from the clay belonged to him.
The moment you realized it, you stopped yourself from saying anything. At first you told yourself it wasn't intentional, but that lie lasted for five minutes.
Because you could not deny that every adjustment of the jaw, every curve of the nose, every feature you shaped with your hands only made the truth more obvious.
You were sculpting Leon.
Your muse was Leon. And because admitting that felt terrifying, you kept your mouth shut and promised yourself you would deal with it later.
But later became days.
Days became another week.
Then, in the middle of it all, you stopped working on the sculpture entirely.
At least whenever Leon was around. Instead, when he asked about the sculpture, you told him you wanted to focus on finishing the poem first. It wasn't entirely a lie. Because the poem did need work.
But the real reason was much harder to admit.
Because how were you supposed to explain that the sculpture representing your muse was turning into him?
No. You would tell him some another day. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe when you were brave enough, that's what you kept telling yourself.
The problem was that tomorrow never seemed to come. So you buried yourself in the poem instead. And during those weeks, you started noticing things about Leon that only made everything worse.
The way he laughed, the way his eyes carried the kind of loneliness that no one noticed, how he carefully edited your work without ever changing your voice.
The way he somehow always found the exact word you had been searching for. The way he never laughed when you doubted yourself.
Whenever frustration got the better of you and you threatened to crumple the entire thing up and throw it away, he would simply pat your shoulder and offer that infuriatingly gentle smile. "You don't need complicated words," he told you one evening while looking over another draft. "Just write what you feel."
You sighed dramatically and dropped your pen onto the table. "What if I don't know what I feel?"
His smile softened instantly. "Then start there."
You nodded and forced your attention back to your notebook because moments like that had become dangerously common.
And Leon hated how easy they were.
The comfortable silences. The way you always looked at him when you were thinking. The way you trusted him enough to show him every rough draft , your messy side and every terrible idea.
It made everything harder because every day spent beside you only made him want more. And because he wanted more, he was terrified of losing what he already had.
Then one afternoon, while the two of you sat surrounded by papers and half-finished drafts, you cleared your throat. "So..." You avoided his eyes for a second. "I think I'm going to work on the sculpture alone for a bit."
Leon blinked and the disappointment arrived so quickly it caught him off guard. "What?" he asked, and made a thin line of his lips, "Why?"
You immediately looked guilty because god leon looked like a puppy who was abandoned, "I just want to finish it myself." You quickly added, "It's not because of you."
Because how could you tell him? How could you possibly admit that he was your muse? That whenever you touched clay thinking of your muse it shaped him.
The truth was, something had been quietly brewing inside your chest for weeks now, growing larger every time you looked at him.
"I know," Leon said softly, offering you his ‘I am hurt' but I wont say smile.
God you knew that all too well, but the truth was for Leon that the words still stung. Not because he blamed you, of course he didn't. He knew it wasn't your fault.
Still, disappointment settled quietly inside him, and despite his best efforts to hide it, he couldn't help wishing for more of you, more of your art, more of your smile, more of everything you had.
But somehow the room felt different after that, and the next few days were spent apart more often than together. You worked on the sculpture alone while Leon focused on helping you finish the poem you gave him.
By then the final verses had started taking shape, and every line felt so real it almost frightened him. Because the poem wasn't about a muse anymore.
It was about him.
Every word carried pieces of Leon inside it. His kindness. His patience. His strength. His features. The way he made you feel seen without even trying.
The way he occupied your thoughts no matter how hard you fought it.
Leon read draft after draft, making small corrections and suggestions in the poem, never realizing he was reading your confession disguised as poetry.
Yet sometimes he would pause while looking over a page. A small frown would appear between his brows. And for the briefest moment, he would think that the person being described felt strangely familiar.
Almost like himself.
But it was delusional of him wasn't it? Because every time that thought surfaced in his mind, he pushed it away before it could give him an irreversible kind of hope.
.
Two weeks passed after that, and eventually everything began coming together.
The poem Leon was working on was almost finished, the sculpture was nearly complete too, and the project that had somehow become the center of your lives for the past several weeks was finally coming to an end.
And instead of feeling relieved, however, both of you found yourself oddly disappointed.
Especially, you, it felt like a goodbye to Leon and you didn't like it. Truth to be told, you hated it. Maybe it was because it meant fewer excuses to spend entire afternoons with Leon. Maybe it was because somewhere between shared coffees, late evenings in the art room, and endless revisions of your poem, he had quietly become your favorite part of every day.
because you fell in love with him.
When Leon asked if you could meet him at the library around seven in the evening so he could return your notebook, you agreed immediately.
He said he was finally done editing the last draft. You had considered showing him the sculpture that day too. It was almost finished. One final detail and it would be complete. And when Leon asked about it you made an excuse because every time you imagined his reaction, your courage abandoned you.
How exactly were you supposed to explain it? anyways, you could not so, like every other time, you promised him and yourself that you would tell him another day. And like a patient man he was, he agreed.
.
.
The library at seven was nearly empty, when you arrived there after your classes.
And you noticed smooth warm yellow lights glowed above rows of bookshelves while only few students remained across the room.
Leon arrived several minutes later looking rushed, papers tucked beneath one arm and his hair slightly disheveled as though he'd been running across campus. "Sorry," he said breathlessly, immediately placing the notebook into your hands. "I have to submit an assignment before the deadline, I totally forgot."
You barely had time to respond before he was already stepping backward toward the exit. "I'll be back in an hour," he promised, turning and glancing at you one last time.
You nodded to yourself, but too late, he was already gone.
For a few moments, you just stared at the empty space and when you went to the corner seat of the library, you simply settled and sat there staring at the notebook resting in your lap.
Because wait. You narrowed your eyes at it.
It wasn't your notebook.
It was Leon's.
The one he had spent weeks hiding from you. The same notebook he always shoved away the moment you got too close, the one he guarded like it contained state secrets.
You stared at it resting in your lap.
Part of you didn't want to open it. You knew you shouldn't. It felt invasive, like crossing a line you weren't supposed to cross. Besides, there was something strangely terrifying about it. If Leon had gone to such lengths to keep it hidden, then whatever was inside clearly mattered to him.
You should've left it alone. But curiosity has always been one of your greatest weaknesses. And unfortunately, it won.
Slowly, you lifted the notebook from your lap, your fingers tightening around the cover as hesitation lingered for one last moment. Then, before you could change your mind, you opened it.
The first poem made your breath catch. It spoke about someone's eyes. Eyes that felt painfully familiar. You frowned and told yourself it was a coincidence.
Then you turned the page and read the second poem describing a smile. Your smile.
coincidence. you told yourself again.
The third one spoke about helping them when they were falling apart.
Your fingers froze against the page.
No. No. No. You said firmly to yourself.
It can't be. There was no way.
Slowly, your heartbeat began to quicken, but you kept reading anyway and every page felt like another piece of a puzzle falling into place. Every page felt like Leon handing you years of feelings he had never spoken aloud.
Your breathing became uneven as you stared at the pages, and slowly the library around you faded into background noise. The words blurred together beneath trembling fingers as realization settled heavily in your chest, growing harder and harder to ignore.
These weren't random poems. They were about you.
And there were hundreds of them. Everything you did, the way you existed, your vision blurred despite yourself and tears gathered unexpectedly in your eyes.
You continued turning pages with trembling fingers until eventually you reached the final poem.
The last poem made your breath falter. because the ink still looked fresh, as though it had been written only hours ago, and somehow that realization made your hands tremble even more.
What the fuck.
And slowly you stared at the words, as the words started to reside inside you.
You started reading the last poem:
There’s an itch beneath my ribs
That can never be satisfied,
An insatiable hunger for love,
That feels like you,
Or perhaps is only you.
It whispers slowly,
Barely a breath,
"My eternal muse,
You are the reason,
I am this animal,
An addict,
A maniac,
Living barely on
The scraps of love
I gather myself,
From the glance I let on you.
My lungs are full now,
Flooded with light,
Nourishing, yet dissolving,
While my heart chokes
On the very feelings
It dug itself into.
Now the ocean is strangling
Me to my death,
A love like a vial of poison,
Brewed from tears
And bleeding wounds.
Still, I let myself fall,
On the the bed of swords,
And made a promise,
An oath upon the altar
Of the religion I built of you:
That I will love you.
Not forever, because forever can end,
But as something eternal:
My eternal muse,
My eternal wound.
Pretty words,
Wont suffice,
Because id tear my face,
And wear your name,
Stitching it,
Onto my every façade,
Whether you remain unreachable
Or never mine at all.
And still, you are my eternal muse,
My darling,
My soulmate,
In a world that exists
Beyond the death of us,
Or even our souls.
Now I am exiled from my own bones,
My flesh turning away from me
And toward you,
A danger to myself,
Yet I keep falling,
Into the ruins of a sunken Athens.
And the more I resist,
The more it grows,
Like a climbing vine,
Spreading beyond me,
Until it becomes you.
You. you read the last line.
The moment you finished reading the poem, the world seemed to stop.
You snapped the notebook shut and clutched it tightly against your chest, as though it were the only thing that existed in your chest.
The students around you disappeared from your awareness, the library faded into nothing, and suddenly there was only the notebook in your hands and the crushing realization settling heavily beneath your ribs. It was you. Every poem had been about you. And somehow, impossibly, Leon had loved you all along.
A broken sound escaped your throat before you could stop it, raw and guttural enough that you no longer cared where you were.
Your chair scraped loudly against the floor as you stood so abruptly that several students glanced up in surprise. Ignoring every stare, you hurried away, weaving blindly through the maze of bookshelves until you found a quiet corner hidden from view.
The moment you reached it, your knees gave out beneath you.
You slid down onto the floor between the shelves and pressed the notebook tightly against your chest.
Then you cried.
Your entire body shook with it, years of fear and longing finally crashing over you all at once. Because all this time, you had been terrified. Terrified of loving him. Terrified of ruining the friendship that meant everything to you.
Terrified that every feeling you carried existed only inside your own heart, unseen and unanswered. Yet here, clutched against your chest, was proof that you had never been alone in it. Every doubt you had buried, every hope you had forced yourself to silence, unraveled beneath the weight of those pages, and the realization hit so hard it stole whatever breath you had left.
And meanwhile, Leon had spent two years writing poems about you.
Two years.
Hundreds of pages.
Hundreds of chances to stop.
Yet he never had.
Your shoulders trembled as tears continued slipping down your face. Not because you were heartbroken, but because for the first time since meeting him, you realized that every look, every smile, every moment that had felt different wasn't something you imagined.
Leon Scott Kennedy had loved you all along.
.
.
An hour later, you had somehow managed to compose yourself, at least enough to stop crying.
The notebook though, it remained clutched tightly in your hands as you returned to your seat, though your heart still refused to calm down, so you tried breathing in and out. as you finally calmed down, and after every few seconds your eyes drifted back toward the entrance of the library waiting for that man.
Then finally, Leon appeared, into the doorway his hairs were messy, and he was panicked, as if he was searching for something. The moment he spotted you, he seemed to freeze for a heartbeat before hurrying toward you. His gaze immediately dropped to the notebook resting in your hands. And somehow that told you everything. “Did–" Leon started.
"You gave me the wrong notebook," you interrupted softly, holding the notebook out toward him. Before he could say anything, you rose from your chair and crossed the distance between you, stopping directly in front of him. The notebook remained extended in your trembling hands, while your heart hammered so violently against your ribs that you were certain he could hear it.
Somehow now the world around seemed smaller as if only you and him remained, the dim glow of white fluorescent lights fell upon leon sweaty face and his sharp features giving him an unfair glow up.
"Yeah," he murmured, and he extended his hands and grabbed his notebook from your hands before holding it close to him, for a second all the color drained from his face and the look of ‘she read it’ i am fucked, settled upon him. “Did--did you read it?” He said clenching his jaw before closing his eyes and sighing so hard that it made you flinch.
For a moment silence settled between you and him. “Yeah.” You replied with a faint flush spreading across your cheeks, and he chuckled nervously like the man who got caught in the act of blasphemy.
‘Fuck’, he muttered.
As you both stood there the library had emptied completely during the last hour. The evening had grown darker outside the windows, leaving only the warm golden lamps illuminating the endless rows of bookshelves.
Now it was just you and him.
So before your courage disappeared, you asked the question sitting in your chest. "Is it about me?"
Leon froze, the notebook tightened beneath his fingers, then his shoulder sagged in defeat and he nodded once. "It is."
The answer came so simply that it almost stole the air from your lungs and you swallow, "Why didn't you tell me?" You asked
A sad smile appeared on his face. "Because I didn't want to ruin what we had."
Your heart physically hurt because why was he like that, why was he too pure, too damn lovable.
Leon looked down briefly before stepping towards you, and reaching for your face by hesitatingly extending his fingers towards your face, slowly his fingertips brushed your jaw, too achingly gentle and you closed your eyes feeling his fingers against you, like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too quickly, as he softly traced your face and finally cradled your jaw in his palms electricity shot through your entire body. "I know how insane it sounds," he whispered.
"No—", you started.
"You need to let me finish." Leon swallowed and cut you off immediately like he'd spent two years carrying these words and finally couldn't hold them anymore.
"It's pathetic, honestly." A broken laugh, bubbled in his chest before leaving his throat, "The way your smile turned me into this."
Your throat tightens at his comment and you feel his palms turn warm at his every comment. "You helped me when nobody else did."
His thumb brushed your cheek. "You listened."
Another breath. "You cared."
His voice cracked and he took in a sharp breath. "You remembered things about me that even I forget."
The words started coming faster after that. As though every poem or confession he'd ever written had suddenly become impossible to contain. "And every time I thought I was getting over it, you'd do something else."
Your vision blurred entirely and a deep water laugh settled into your bones.
Leon smiled looking embarrassed but he didn't stop, "I don't know when it happened." His voice softened. "I just know that one day I was writing about you."
A tear slipped down your cheek, and Leon immediately wiped it away with his thumb, before stepping closer to you, "Leon..."
He shook his head, “Then only thing I knew was that I was never able to stop.” and his eyes immediately found yours again.
Then he stepped closer, close enough that every remaining inch of distance between you disappeared, and your breath caught instantly in your chest.
He was so near that the rest of the world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of you standing there in the quiet. Slowly, he rested his forehead against yours, careful, as though afraid you might break.
Your tears stilled where they clung to your lashes, and with your eyes half-closed, you looked up at him, feeling your heart pound painfully beneath your ribs. "What does it mean?" he asked quietly, his warm breath tickling your face.
The question sounded more directed at himself than at you. Then he smiled, and he asked another question, and you knew he wanted to say more so you just stood there, in the quiet of each other's presence. "What does it mean when every poem somehow becomes one person?"
You couldn't answer, and maybe Leon didn't want you to because he continued, "What does it mean when every future I imagine somehow includes them?"
His voice broke completely as he shakily whispered, “what does it mean?” he pauses, "When love itself becomes a person..." he whispered, and finally pulled away from you and shivered at the loss of his warmth against you.
But his eyes never left yours, and with a smile he finished, "...I don't think there's any saving someone after that."
As he finally said those words, you felt visibly shaken, maybe terrified, but thrilled, exhilarated even and all your nerves were tingling at the right spots and for a long moment neither of you looked away.
The silence between you felt fragile, stretched thin by years of unspoken feelings and quiet longing. Your heart pounded so hard it felt as though it was beating in your throat, blood rushing through your veins faster than you could think.
Before something inside you could fear the man in front of you, you finally gave in. With your heart practically breaking open inside your chest, you stepped forward again and wrapped your arms around him.
Leon inhaled sharply, and he wrapped his arms around your waist, and before either of you could lose your nerve, you reached up and pressed your lips against his. The kiss was soft at first.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to stand still, and Leon flinched at first, shocked but then he kissed you back as desperately and smiled against your lips, the kind of smile that carried relief, disbelief, and happiness all at once.
One of his hands came up to cradle your jaw gently, his thumb brushing against your cheek, while the other settled firmly around your waist, pulling you closer as though he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, neither of you had anything left to hide, Leon smiled against your lips before one hand cradled your jaw while the other settled securely around your waist, pulling you closer.
"I love you, sweetheart," Leon whispered, his voice rough with emotion.
Your eyes burned immediately. A trembling laugh escaped you as tears threatened to spill again. "I love you too," you admitted softly, the words feeling lighter now that they were finally free.
When you finally pulled back, neither of you moved far. Your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the small space between you, then you both stepped back and as you looked at each other you realized both of your eyes were glistening, with love, tears and desire.
God you both probably felt like idiots right now.
Two idiots that were completely in love with each other.
Then suddenly you laughed. "Come with me."
Leon blinked at you, completely confused, "Where?"
"The art room." A nervous smile appeared on your face as you continued. "I need to show you my sculpture."
Confusion flickered across his handsome features but he nodded anyway. Then, without hesitation or before moving towards the art room, he pulled you into another tight embrace.
Which just felt right.
And for the first time in two years, neither of you had to wonder anymore what you were to each other.
because:
The longing was over.
The waiting was over.
And somewhere between two hundred poems and a sculpture hidden in an art room, two hearts and souls had finally found their way home.
