Worth It

Cruz jogged across the NYU campus, sneakers splashing through shallow puddles. A steady drizzle had turned the walkways glossy under the hazy afternoon light. Most students rushed by with umbrellas or hoodies pulled tight, and Cruz mirrored their haste. She was on a mission: to find an elusive text about Yemen’s tribal negotiations—one that Professor Asif mentioned was crucial for her paper.

Her breath misted in the damp air as she checked her phone for a screenshot of the library’s digital catalog. Stack 3C, Row 12, she thought, half to reassure herself that she knew where she was going. It was a new part of the library she rarely visited—some corner of the reference section.

She rounded the corner toward the library’s main entrance, shaking off raindroplets from her hoodie before stepping inside. The place welcomed her with the familiar hush of turning pages and the faint smell of old books and dust. Overhead lights glowed softly, reflecting off the polished floors.

She took a moment to catch her breath, scanning her phone for any missed messages. Nothing urgent—just a note from Bobby about dinner plans, a text from Randy linking some silly meme, and a campus alert about the upcoming track meet. With a sigh, she shoved the phone into her pocket and made her way deeper into the library’s labyrinth of shelves.

In the quiet, her mind drifted to the last conversation she’d had with Aaliyah. I enjoy working with students who show genuine interest, Aaliyah had said. In Cruz’s memory, the TA’s voice glowed with warmth. Stop thinking about it, she chided herself. Focus on the book.

Yet, her stomach fluttered at the thought that maybe she’d catch a glimpse of Aaliyah somewhere in these stacks. Unlikely, she told herself. But the day had already proven soggy and unpredictable—who knew what might happen?

--

Far on the other side of the library, Aaliyah brushed drops of rain from her coat, her black hair still damp around the edges. She’d come to the library to search for an obscure volume on tribal power structures—something that might strengthen her dissertation. She felt at home in these rows of worn spines and dusty tomes.

But her thoughts kept tugging toward a less academic concern: Cruz.

She let out a slow exhale, recalling the carefully navigated boundary she’d maintained in their recent office hour. Why does she make me feel so… uncertain? In the grand scheme of ethics, it should be clear: student and TA relationships were frowned upon, complicated, a risk to her budding academic career.

So why did she keep seeking excuses to help Cruz? Why did her pulse flutter whenever they locked eyes? Because she’s sincere, driven, and she actually cares about these issues, Aaliyah answered herself. Because she’s… just… interesting.

She stepped into the 3C reference section, scanning the top shelves. Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen: a group chat with Malika, Nala, and Nashwa. Again, she thought with mild exasperation, remembering how they teased her relentlessly about “Track Star Girl.”

[Aaliyah]: In the library. Research day.

She left it brief. If she opened the door to more discussion, they’d pounce.

Within seconds, her phone buzzed again, the device lighting up with her friends’ replies. She decided to ignore it for now, focusing instead on the spines of the books. Tribal Negotiations and State Power in Modern Yemen. There it was.

She reached up, fingertips brushing the binding. The book was at an awkward angle, and she stretched onto her tiptoes, trying to wrest it free without toppling any other volumes.

Then a second hand appeared, equally intent on the same book.

--

Cruz felt a surge of triumph when she spotted the exact title she needed—Tribal Negotiations and State Power in Modern Yemen. She extended her arm, focusing on the label. Just as her fingers curled around the dusty hardcover, a slender hand with neatly trimmed nails slid in from the other side of the shelf.

Cruz froze, heart catching in her throat. Wait, is someone else grabbing—

Their fingers brushed, a light, fleeting contact of skin against skin. She caught a glimpse of pale wrists, a dark sleeve. Time seemed to slow in that instant, her breath hitching. Then she heard a small gasp from the other side of the shelf.

Blinking, she leaned left, peering around the boundary of books to see who it was. Her eyes widened, heart thudding against her ribs. “Aaliyah?”

Aaliyah’s eyes were equally wide, a hint of color spreading across her cheeks. “Cruz…”

For a moment, they both stood there, still each holding the same book. The overhead fluorescents hummed, and the faint chatter of distant students felt muted, as if the entire library sank into background noise.

Cruz’s mind went blank except for the electric awareness of how close their hands were. She swallowed, nerves tangled with a spike of warmth in her chest. She’s so close… does she feel that spark too?

Aaliyah exhaled, pulling her hand back fractionally as though she’d been scorched. The motion dislodged the book, and it slid halfway off the shelf into Cruz’s palm.

“I—sorry,” Aaliyah murmured, letting go fully. “You take it.”

Cruz realized she still clutched the hardcover, her knuckles white. “No, it’s fine, we probably both need it. We can share or… I’ll scan the relevant parts and email them to you?”

Words tumbled awkwardly. She was babbling, but she couldn’t stop. Her hand tingled where their fingers brushed.

“That might be good,” Aaliyah said, regaining composure. She stepped around the shelf, closing the distance so they faced each other more naturally—though still too close for Cruz’s heart to handle calmly. “I was looking for this exact reference.”

“Me too,” Cruz managed. She forced a laugh. “Small world, or… small library, I guess.”

Aaliyah offered a polite nod, but her expression remained tense, eyes flicking uncertainly over Cruz’s face. In that moment, Cruz sensed the undercurrent swirling between them—raw, unspoken, undeniable.

Then Aaliyah drew in a breath, plastering on a professional smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll let you check it out first. I can wait or find another source.”

Cruz tried to respond, but her heart hammered so loudly in her ears she wasn’t sure she could string words together without sounding ridiculous. “Are you sure?”

Aaliyah nodded once more, stepping back as if the space between them was too charged to bear. “Yes, I’m sure. I… have to answer some messages anyway.”

With a stiff nod, she turned, disappearing around the corner of the shelf.

Cruz stared after her, clutching the book to her chest like a lifeline. What the hell just happened?

--

Aaliyah hurried to a reading nook at the far end of the aisle, heart pounding. She set her bag and coat on a nearby chair, inhaling through her nose. Calm down. It was just a brush of the fingers. Yet, that quick spark still tingled in her skin.

She glanced at her phone, blinking at the group chat notifications:

[Malika]: Where are you?

[Nala]: If you don’t respond, we’ll assume you eloped with Ms. Track Star.

[Nashwa]: Maybe they’re making out in the library stacks…

Aaliyah groaned internally, her cheeks flaming again. If only they knew how close that felt. She typed furiously:

[Aaliyah]: Stop. I’m actually in the library. And yes, I just ran into her. Literally. We reached for the same book. It was… awkward.

She hesitated before hitting send, then figured they’d find out anyway. It’s not like I can hide it from them forever.

Her phone buzzed almost immediately:

[Nashwa]: The “same book”? Could there be a more perfect metaphor?

[Malika]: I’m squealing. This is so romantic.

[Nala]: Did you kiss? Or at least hold hands?

Aaliyah pressed her lips together. Why am I even telling them this? She typed again:

[Aaliyah]: No. We’re in a library, not a soap opera. It was just a weird moment. I feel ridiculous.

[Nala]: You’re allowed to have a crush. Chill.

[Malika]: Just remember to keep it on the down-low if it’s not appropriate. But it sounds so sweet.

Aaliyah inhaled sharply, turning off her phone’s sound. She glanced around the near-empty rows, her thoughts drifting back to Cruz’s startled face. Why do I feel this rush? It defied logic—the guidelines she’d set for herself, the academic boundaries she was determined to uphold.

She pressed a hand to her forehead, resisting the urge to pace. Maybe she needed to find another book and bury herself in research. She could let the adrenaline subside. If she lingered too long, she risked crossing paths with Cruz again—and she wasn’t sure her composure could handle that right now.

Focus, she told herself. You have a dissertation to write, boundaries to keep.

Still, the warmth lingered where their fingers touched, echoing like a phantom spark.

--

Meanwhile, Cruz practically fled the library’s stacks, the book clutched to her chest. She found an unoccupied study carrel near the windows, sat down, and tried to catch her breath. Rain still drizzled outside, pelting against the glass.

Her mind reeled. It was just a touch. But that simple contact spoke volumes, unraveling her forced composure. She remembered the startled look in Aaliyah’s eyes, the faint blush coloring her cheeks. She definitely felt something… or am I projecting?

She ran a hand through her damp hair, the memory repeating in a loop. It reminded her of the fleeting tension they shared at the coffee shop, in the gym, every time they locked eyes. She’s fighting this too, right?

She sighed, opening her phone messages. Bobby was her default confidant, but the track bros had proven themselves meddlers. Maybe a quiet check-in with Bobby won’t hurt. She typed quickly:

[Cruz]: You won’t believe what just happened in the library.

Bobby’s response came near-instantly:

[Bobby]: Spill. Did you see Ms. TA?

Cruz smirked at Bobby’s unrelenting nickname. She typed:

[Cruz]: Yup. We literally reached for the same book. Touched fingers. Very rom-com.

[Bobby]: HA! So did you confess your undying love?

[Cruz]: No, I panicked. She panicked. She took off. I have no idea what to do.

[Bobby]: Gah, you two are hopeless. Just talk to her.

Cruz exhaled, resting her forehead on the desk. Talking is easier said than done when she’s so professional.

She typed again:

[Cruz]: She gave me the book, then left. It felt… intense.

[Bobby]: Take it as a sign she’s definitely feeling it too. People don’t just panic if they’re indifferent.

Cruz bit her lip, uncertain but slightly comforted by Bobby’s perspective. She texted a quick thanks, then shoved her phone away, flipping the library book open for a distraction. But the words on the page blurred as she replayed that tiny spark from contact.

It’s more than polite, right?

--

Deciding she couldn’t focus on reading in her current state, Cruz gave up on studying for the moment. She dropped the heavy tome into her backpack, rising from the desk in a swirl of restless energy. The library’s hush felt claustrophobic now.

She slipped outside into the drizzling rain, throwing on her hoodie. The air tasted of ozone and damp concrete, and she welcomed the chill on her flushed cheeks. I should just walk it off.

Hands tucked in her pockets, she wandered along the campus paths, leaving footprints in tiny puddles. Students scurried by under umbrellas, and a few recognized her from track, offering casual nods. She nodded back, but her thoughts were far away—trapped in that moment of near contact, the reflection of her own startled expression in Aaliyah’s eyes.

Eventually, she found herself near a small campus cafe and decided a hot drink might help settle her nerves. Inside, warmth and the scent of espresso enveloped her. She ordered a simple latte, found a corner table, and tried to calm the flurry in her mind.

I need to accept that she’s my TA, and I can’t read too much into small touches. She’s just being polite… right?

Yet, the memory refused to fade. Every time she blinked, she saw Aaliyah’s gaze, felt the ghost of her fingertips. Stop obsessing, she told herself. Finish the paper, graduate, figure life out.

She sipped her latte, letting the steam curl around her face. I’ll handle it. I always do. But a hollow sense of longing gnawed at her anyway.

--

Aaliyah managed to grab a second reference book after her run-in with Cruz, but her head pounded, and focusing on academic text felt futile. So she left the library sooner than planned, taking the subway back to her Greenwich Village apartment. The entire ride, she stared at the scratched metal floor, replaying that fleeting moment of contact in her mind.

By the time she unlocked her front door, shaking out her damp coat, her phone was buzzing again with group chat activity. She collapsed on the couch, feet propped on a cushion, and finally opened the messages:

[Nala]: You can’t just drop that bomb and go silent!

[Malika]: We’re waiting for details.

[Nashwa]: Did you confess your love?

Aaliyah let out a humorless laugh. They’d kill me if they knew how cowardly I acted. She typed:

[Aaliyah]: I panicked. She panicked. We both just… left.

Within seconds:

[Malika]: sigh You’re supposed to be this elegant, composed woman. Where was that?

[Nala]: You can’t blame her for freaking out. She’s the TA, it’s frowned upon. But also so romantic!

[Nashwa]: Boundaries are tricky, but you can’t keep ignoring your feelings forever.

Aaliyah bit her lip, reading their words through a lens of embarrassment and yearning. She typed back:

[Aaliyah]: I know. But if Professor Asif found out, or if the department…

[Nashwa]: Then be discreet. You’re both adults.

[Malika]: Exactly. No one said you have to plaster it on social media.

[Nala]: The bigger question: do you like her enough to risk it?

Aaliyah stared at the phone, her heart pounding. Do I? She recalled Cruz’s earnest eyes, the gentle intensity in her voice when discussing NGOs and humanitarian crises. The memory left her chest tight with something that felt suspiciously like longing.

[Aaliyah]: I don’t know. Maybe. She’s genuine, and I respect her drive. But I’m not willing to risk my entire career.

[Nala]: You can keep it professional until the semester ends, right?

[Malika]: That’s months away!

[Nashwa]: So weigh your options. If it’s meant to be, waiting a bit isn’t the end of the world.

Aaliyah swallowed hard. They were right. She needed time—time to confirm her own feelings, time to keep boundaries intact. But the memory of that light touch made her question whether waiting would only intensify the tension between them.

She typed one last message before closing the chat:

[Aaliyah]: I’ll figure it out. I just need to keep my head on straight.

Yet even as she sent it, her body recalled the surge of warmth from Cruz’s fingers against hers, the moment that threatened to unravel her carefully maintained composure. Keep your head on straight, she repeated silently, trying to drown out the drumbeat of her heart.

--

Days passed in an uneasy dance. Cruz avoided the library’s 3C aisle, opting instead to scan materials online or find different references. She told herself it wasn’t fear—just efficiency. Meanwhile, Aaliyah buried herself in dissertation work, meticulously scheduling her days so she wouldn’t be caught off guard in random corners of campus.

Still, their eyes found each other in class. During lectures, Aaliyah would briefly meet Cruz’s gaze, a flicker of something unspoken crossing her face before she turned her attention to the next student. Cruz, for her part, tried to pretend she was immune to the subtle tension, burying her nose in her notes.

They barely spoke outside class or office hours. Each time Cruz considered swinging by for “extra help,” she remembered how that last boundary push had left Aaliyah flustered. Give her space, she reminded herself.

But the distance only heightened their quiet longing. They both knew it was there—a charge simmering beneath the surface, an unasked question.

--

It was a Thursday afternoon when fate intervened again. A sudden thunderstorm unleashed torrents of rain over Manhattan, catching Cruz as she dashed from track practice to an academic building. She’d forgotten her umbrella—again—and was soaked by the time she reached a side entrance.

She stood dripping in the foyer, rummaging in her bag for a spare jacket, when Aaliyah stepped inside from another door. Their eyes locked, surprise and a hint of exasperation flickering across Aaliyah’s face at the sight of Cruz’s dripping hair.

“Cruz,” Aaliyah greeted, voice carrying a note of concern. “You’re soaked.”

“Yeah, forgot my umbrella. Good times,” Cruz said, hugging her soaked hoodie around her torso. “I was just heading inside to dry off.”

Aaliyah hesitated, scanning the hallway. It was mostly empty—just a stray professor darting past. “Do you want to borrow my umbrella? I have a second one in my office, I think.”

Cruz’s heart leapt at the offer, but she also felt a twinge of awkwardness. “I don’t want to trouble you. I’m sure I can find something or just wait for the rain to die down.”

Aaliyah’s expression softened, a slight upward curve on her lips. “It’s no trouble. Come on.”

She gestured for Cruz to follow her down the hall. Cruz complied, ignoring the water dripping onto the tile floor. They stopped near a small office closet where Aaliyah rummaged for an umbrella, eventually producing a compact black one.

“Here,” she said, handing it over. Their fingers brushed again—a delicate echo of that library moment. Cruz’s pulse stuttered, but Aaliyah pulled back quickly, clearing her throat.

“Thank you,” Cruz said quietly. “I’ll return it tomorrow.”

“Sure.” Aaliyah’s gaze flicked to Cruz’s soaked hair, and for a split second, her hand twitched as if she wanted to reach out and push a wet strand behind Cruz’s ear. But she didn’t.

Then footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor—a couple of staff members chatting. Aaliyah seemed to snap back to formality. “I should go. Good luck drying off.”

Cruz nodded, hugging the umbrella to her chest. “Right, thanks again.”

As Aaliyah hurried away, each step echoing softly, Cruz stood in the empty hallway, water pooling at her feet. The brief contact of their hands lingered like a whispered promise. Why does every encounter feel like we’re dancing around something we can’t say?

--

That evening, in the solitude of her dorm room, Cruz opened the borrowed umbrella and left it to dry in the corner. Bobby, sprawled on the couch, raised an eyebrow. “Nice umbrella. Where’d you get that?”

Cruz rubbed the back of her neck. “Aaliyah lent it to me.”

Bobby’s grin grew wolfish. “Oh ho! Another close encounter?”

“It wasn’t that big a deal,” Cruz lied, feeling the warmth creep up her neck. “We just ran into each other in the hallway. She was being nice.”

Bobby studied her a moment, then shrugged. “Sure, if you say so.”

But Cruz couldn’t lie to herself. The string of near-misses, accidental touches, and polite offerings from Aaliyah had woven a kind of tension that kept growing. Each contact felt electric, leaving her with more questions than answers.

Somewhere across town, in a Greenwich Village apartment, Aaliyah sat on her couch, phone in hand, ignoring the blinking group chat. She stared at the other umbrella—her primary one—propped by the door. I gave her my spare, but that doesn’t mean anything, does it?

She sighed, pulling a blanket over her knees. The memory of Cruz’s soaked silhouette in the hallway tugged at her heartstrings, a pang of something warm and intense. But the demands of her dissertation, the department’s watchful eye, the ethical lines—they all weighed on her.

She opened her phone, typing a single message to the group:

[Aaliyah]: Gave her my spare umbrella. I need to get a grip.

Within moments:

[Malika]: That’s adorable!

[Nala]: Umbrella = big step in rom-com logic.

[Nashwa]: Next step: shared apartment key? (Kidding, sort of)

Aaliyah closed her eyes, letting the phone slip to the couch cushion. I need to be careful. Her heart, however, refused to calm.

--

For the next few days, both Cruz and Aaliyah maintained a cautious distance. No more carefully orchestrated run-ins, no extra attempts at lingering conversation. Yet, they remained hyper-aware of each other’s presence in class. Every time Aaliyah handed back graded assignments or answered a question, her pulse quickened at Cruz’s earnest gaze. And every time Cruz caught sight of Aaliyah in the hallway, she felt a pang of longing she couldn’t fully articulate.

In a sense, they struck a fragile truce: acknowledging the spark but refusing to fan it into flame. At least, not yet.

Still, the memory of that soft brush of fingers in the library lingered in both their minds like a promise unfulfilled. And the tension that brewed in the silence threatened to break the very boundaries they were trying so hard to maintain.