a. n ////
This is a lot different from what I usually try to do. Or, I think it is. Just a heads up for anyone/everyone. :)
p.s. I forgot Lazard's name. D:

v a p o r memento; i can't forget.

He came by every Tuesday.

I guess it was his routine. I would have asked, maybe, if I was sitting at a table, idly doing research instead of behind the counter. I figured noticing the weekly schedule after the second time wouldn't give a great impression anyway.

But sometimes, he would stay. He'd take the bioengineering books he found hidden in the masses, grab a chair, and start studying. I'd watch him every once in a while. It's hard not to; he always finds an annoying area in my periphery (the spikes don't help) and Tuesdays are never that lively during my day shift. Not to mention that it's the university library—there isn't a huge kind of variety. So instead of reading about the in-depth analysis of Prophase II, I tend to finish my homework in my little niche of space.

After a few more of those fateful Tuesdays, I thought my deduction was pretty correct. He'd come, each time the clock hands would be in a different place, and produce the next book he would be dissecting.

The books would always be different, too. Once, it was a biology textbook, and another time he wanted what looked like advanced calculus. There had been some psychology and physiology books that slipped in. I had to fight back the crazy urges to know exactly what the hell he was majoring in.

But to stem from the selections he would choose, he was, surprisingly, not that same stereotypical guy that everyone thinks of when they imagine a weekly library visitor. I mean, he usually came in with black leather gloves still on his hands and aerodynamic–looking goggles latched across his forehead.

If I didn't know any better, I would have thought he was a motorcycle mechanist.

There was something about him though, this one particular thing that got to me every time he would walk into this drab little place.

It'd be right when he had handed me whatever book he had been cradling, when he'd look up and show me his face.

But it wasn't his face, even if it had boyish planes and lightly drizzled freckles and yellow, feathered spikes of hair.

They would be framed under his golden, dusty eyebrows.

Those eyes. His eyes.

They were a rich, velvety blue, with layers and layers of what looked like chemical neon. It was an electrical color splash against the backdrop of browns and off-whites littering the bookshelves. They even brought out his pale, emotionless face.

But even with the stinging gaze he possessed, something else was there still. I'm thinking it was how they danced, how they were as lively and harsh as a snowstorm. Where his face was in a perpetual calm, his eyes were restless and wondering. And I knew that they could express more feeling than his face ever would.

"Are you going to scan that?"

It was one of the most embarrassing things to happen to me. At least, when he was involved. I've tripped and fell and ran into things, sure, but those paled in comparison when they were lined next up to this.

I think I said sorry, or maybe an 'of course'. It's all hazy and foggy, but I'm certain that I fumbled with the scanner.

What I do remember was the baritone of his voice, how it was kind of scratchy, how it was smooth. And I remember how numb my mind was, as if a guy had never talked to me before.

But I know it's only because I had been library-watching him for the past two months, and I had never heard a voice come out of him before. It had always been grunts of acknowledgement or nods. Never, never a whole sentence. Directed at me.

I could've sworn that his eyes were vibrating in a laugh when I looked back up at him. And he was walking away before I had the chance to wrap my mind around it. I guess it didn't matter much, because I was on a cloud until the next Tuesday came around.

There had been a few things I learned about him, and I don't know if my majoring in psychology was what helped me, but I picked out his habits: how he tended to tap his fingers in an undulated rhythm across the waxed table top, how his hands ran through his perfectly disheveled hair.

He'd bite the inside of his cheek and furrow his brows now and again.

Sometimes, he'd slam the book closed, inciting looks and glares from others around him. He'd never care about them. Actually, I think he could care less, and he'd bury his head in his hand, rubbing his forehead.

Then, he'd pick up his sling-bag, stand up, and stalk out.

I'd draw my own conclusions, creating a background to the boy I knew-but didn't-and collect the books he'd leave to put them back up.

I cleared all the books he'd check out, and it was as if he didn't come in at all.

-

He was in my psychology class. I never noticed until we were assigned a project over behavioral analysis.

He took his seats in the back, close to the corner window. His eyes would sometimes glaze over, his head would turn to the window, and he'd look peaceful for a little while.

I'd wonder what he would think about, whether it would be his girlfriend or a memory. Or maybe even nothing. I just wanted to know what gave him that look on his face.

I blamed it on the fact that I was able to see him every other day now, and I still didn't know his name.

"Ms. Lockhart?"

I started, whipping my head around to see the professor's beady eyes.

"Sir?"

"Would you care to answer my question?"

His face reminded me of a street rat, but I could tell he was hiding a triumphant smile.

I breathed in, pursing my lips together. I looked down to my notes, but all I saw were doodles of clouds and flowers.

So I stumbled around on my words, not able to let myself tell him that I hadn't been paying attention to his dreadful monotone.

But a voice stopped me mid-babble.

"What I think she's trying to say—" the library boy glanced at me, then to the professor, and I was blinking rapidly, my voice broken. "Is that the human psyche can sometimes deceive itself." He looked away from the professor and back to me again. "If that's…"

His look was pointed and his voice prompting, and I felt an odd rush of adrenaline spike into my face. I could hardly breathe.

"Y-yes. That's…right." I don't know if I was convincing enough, but I didn't care. My ears were blocking out whatever Mr. Beady decided to answer, and I couldn't break eye contact with him.

I tried. I did. Really, really hard.

It was hard to tell if he tried too, or if there was a dusted on smile upon his face. But what I do know was that he nodded to me, and placed his attention back to the front of the class.

Then I breathed out, my lungs coming back to life. It was difficult to tell if I was embarrassed beyond the first time, or if my heart was beating out of its cavity because he saved me from the metaphorical abuse of Mr. Beady.

I internally chose the latter, and my hand doodled spikes in my journal.

-

Aerith would always try to drag me to go clubbing with her. She'd tell me, You need a guy. Or that I was, Too pretty to be single.

Whether that was true or not, I never felt inclined to dance to hypnotic beats—much less get plastered and pregnant.

But as many times as I kept telling myself those were the only reasons, I couldn't fight back the feeling of betrayal to the Library Boy. No matter how ridiculous my tiny infatuation was with him.

Even more ridiculous than that infatuation was that I had been subconsciously looking forward to Tuesdays. I didn't realize how deep it had taken root until the day came when he didn't show up.

The clock struck six p.m. My shift was over, and my Tuesday fix of the Library Boy was unfulfilled.

I shrugged it off, gathered my things, and let Jesse take over.

-

He didn't come to the library at all anymore. I started to dread Tuesdays every week after the second no show.

I hated the feeling of anticipation I'd get whenever the door would open and it wouldn't be him.

It was so pathetic. I didn't want to feel that way, but my body felt different about it apparently. I was given the chance to glance at him in psychology every other day, so I didn't know why it mattered that he didn't visit me in the—…

And then I figured out why I was so hurt about him not coming.

It was personal deep, deep down. And I couldn't just shrug it off.

So I started to look forward to psychology.

-

When class was dismissed, I lagged behind. He was at the professor's desk, asking him a question that I couldn't hear. I walked slowly out of the door, leaned against the wall, and waited.

He came out a few seconds later, catching sight of me as soon as he passed the doorway. I saw his eyes widen a fraction. I swallowed and gave him a small smile. It all...panned out better in my head.

He stopped walking.

"Hey—" I placed a piece of hair behind my ear. His gaze was stinging, like my body was pressed on a stove and I couldn't push away.

But then I remembered how annoyed I was with the library absences and vague perceptions.

"I see you around…a lot." I bit my lip, the inane annoyances dripping out of me and onto the floor. Why did those things matter? I knew his habits, his expressions—but I didn't know his name.

"Yeah," he said. He kept his eyes on me and then looked toward the floor. "You're…Tifa. Right?" I didn't know why he was acting so off-balance asking the question, but I guess I had been pushed off-balance too.

"Yes," I must have sounded as surprised as I felt, because he looked back up at me. "How did you…" I gestured with my hands, adding on to my sentence.

His bottom lip quirked, and I thought if I hadn't been watching him so much, I wouldn't have noticed.

"A lot of people know who you are." His eyes were crashing like waves, and I stilled.

"Oh." I was so glad that I was still leaning against that wall.

Then he jerked his head to the side. "I gotta get to my next class, so…" he held out his hand.

"Nice meeting you, Tifa." He paused before saying my name, and I felt my neck turn white hot.

I felt my hand reach his and fit into the silky black leather. "You too." Beneath the exterior of the glove, I felt inviting warmth. I wished he hadn't been wearing it…

I guess I must have been thinking that a long time.

Because a closing door cleared away my foggy mind, and I blinked up to realize.

He was gone.

Like he hadn't even been there.

And I still didn't know his name.

-

I found a note on my 'official' desk in the next psychology class.

To Tifa was written on the front. I picked it up, my curiosity peaking with each second. I looked up to the window seat to find it empty.

I opened it with caution, something telling me to brace myself for whatever the contents might be.

My stomach clenched when I read it.

Meet me in the park at six-thirty tomorrow night.

Cloud

Cloud. That was his name.

Cloud.

I glanced at my open notebook, my eyes tracing the drawn patterns in the margins.

I think I knew all along.

-

It was six-thirty. Then seven.

At seven-fifteen, it started to drizzle. I didn't bring an umbrella, and the damp coldness of the bench soaked into my favorite jeans.

I'd been biting my tongue for so long that I thought the indentions of my teeth would forever be molded into it.

My eyes had been tearing up on and off, but I was always able to hold them back. But as soon as my eyes dried, they would be wet again.

I kept making up excuses in my mind about why he didn't come. Maybe there was some kind of emergency that came up. Or maybe his family called last minute about something.

But the anger was still there. The hurt was still there, too. I'd waited much longer than I should've, and there was really no point in staying.

I took out the note from my purse. I remember reading it over once, then twice.

It caught many raindrops, and the ballpoint pen smudged; it made the paper darken and loose.

I easily pulled it apart with my shaky hands, jagged down the middle. Then I pulled it into fourths, and eighths, and sixteenths, right up until they were miniscule atoms that blew away with the vapor of the wind. It just...disappeared.

I drove back to my dorm, hair wet and face sticky. I was grateful that Aerith hadn't been there, but I knew I'd need her tomorrow.

She left a note on my computer desk, saying,

Call me as soon as you get back.

It was underlined twice.

I had left my cell phone on my bed by accident, my head being scattered about an hour ago. It was blinking and making a trill every few seconds.

I didn't feel like talking. Instead, I ignored the note and my phone and walked into the bathroom. I blasted the shower on and drowned myself in the steam.

I let myself be unforgivably selfish.

-

I called her at eight-thirty.

My knees buckled, and I dropped the phone.

It was a Tuesday.

-

"I told him a motorcycle was a bad idea."

I almost laughed when I figured out his brother was Zack.

"But he'd grown out of listening to me all the time. So when he gained enough money, that was the first thing he did."

I didn't think he was so close, right there.

"He was—"

If I went out with Aerith—

"More than a brother. He was my best friend."

I looked over at her, and she was staring straight ahead, her nose red and eyelashes condensing into droplets. She was holding Zack's hand, and I never would have thought I'd see him like this.

I was scared that I would start crying, so I turned away and stared at a stray ant climbing onto a blade of grass.

I felt a hand on my shoulder when the ant had multiplied into a colony, and I looked up to see Aerith's face. Her small smile was wavering, but it was still there.

"I'll wait for you at the dorm, okay?"

I remember nodding, and seeing empty seats all around me. As Aerith reached her car, I realized I was all alone. I was all alone, sitting under a cloudless sky.

I stood, as shaky as my breathing. I walked toward the open casket and made myself look inside.

My lungs shriveled, and I hiccuped. I couldn't hold it back anymore.

My tears landed on his cheeks, one splashing onto his eyebrow, his golden, dusty eyebrow. I let my hand wipe it away, feeling how soft he still was. But his inviting warmth had been taken away.

Why had it been taken away?

I took in the suit they had placed him in, touched his uncased hands.

I knew instantly. This wasn't him. This wasn't—Cloud.

But I saw how peaceful his face was. I saw the tender curve of his lips and the eyelids that covered his now lifeless pools of expression.

I wondered what he had been thinking. I wondered, and I wished.

And…and maybe, I thought. Maybe he had been thinking about me.

-

Mr. Beady had made a speech as soon as everyone had arrived. It was a nice speech, but I couldn't bear to pay attention to it.

I heard sniffles around me and I didn't want to imagine what kind of life he had led, how many people were affected. Or if they only felt emotion from the heartfelt speech.

And then he dismissed class. For those of us who were close to Cloud, he had said. I looked up at this, and his eyes were burning into mine.

I'd never seen him look sympathetic before, but the marbles in his head were glistening with something close to it. Maybe there was also a kind of sadness there as well.

I gathered my things, without thought, and headed toward the door.

"Ms. Lockhart—"

I stilled in my tracks, and turned my head toward the now gentle, mock-less eyes.

"I have…something I would like to show you."

I walked up to his desk with caution. It was the same caution I felt when I picked up that note on my desk.

I wished I still had it. But I now wondered if it had ever been real.

He opened one of his cabinets and pulled out a thin packet as carefully as he could, as if it would rip with the slightest jerky movement.

I watched his face as he looked down at it. His face became lined with a calm sadness, but his brows furrowed with conflict.

"His project."

He held it out to me.

"It was over you."

My heart stopped, and the edges of my eyes filled with mist.

"What?"

He gave me a fraction of a smile. "It was the best paper I've read in a very long time."

The paper wasn't due for another three weeks.

"But—" my hands glided over it and I read over the title.

It was simple looking. Just a regular paper.

Behavioral Analysis:
Ms. Tifa Lockhart

"You meant a lot to him, if you didn't know."

A one-hundred percent was written in the top right corner.

And then it was all blurred. It was a mess of white and black. I felt hot ribbons slide down my cheeks.

"Professor L-Lazard," I'd never called him by his real name before, but it was a nice change. His hand touched down on my shoulder, holding comfort.

I looked up to him, imploringly. I wanted him to know how grateful I was for him showing me this, giving me this. "T-thank you."

His cheeks had become pink during the absence of my vision, and if I wasn't so emotional, I would have seen how deeply affected he was too.

"There's no need for thanks."

I nodded at him, giving my eyes a rough wipe. There is no doubt in my mind that I would ever take a liking to him as peculiar as this, but I think I held back giving him the credit he probably deserved. Perhaps he was harsh on me because he saw something, perhaps not. Maybe it was the paper I was holding so close to me. But then again, maybe it wasn't.

But I think he would be the only one who would ever truly understand.

Because I've read Cloud's paper.

I read it every day.

And as much as it breaks me, it seals me back up too.

-

I quit my job at the library, the next Tuesday, right after the end of my shift.

I took everything in for the last time, the walls fading and cracking into a photographed memory.

I breathed in, and I pushed through the doors to the world outside.

The sky cackled and streaks of lightning pierced the clouds.

And then—it started to rain.

p.p.s. I don't personally think that Lazard has beady eyes and a rat face. :)
p.p.p.s. I don't have a clue about college classes.
p.p.p.p.s. Genre pickings aren't my cup of tea. :P