Overdue

I got an email from the library. "Your book is 214 days overdue. Fine: £14.50."

I haven't borrowed a book since sixth form. I almost deleted it. Then I saw the title.

"Norwegian Wood." Haruki Murakami. My favourite book. I'd told her that on our second date, in a bar, shouting over bad music. "It's about missing someone so much it becomes a place," I said. She nodded like she'd already been there.

Her name was Sasha. Two years. A girl who left sticky notes inside books for me to find. She once hid a note inside a cereal box. I still don't know how she did it.

We ended in February. A gentle, awful ending. She said, "I don't want you to hate me." I said, "I don't think I know how." I helped her carry her suitcase down three flights of stairs.

Now this email. Checked out on my library card, the night before we split.

She'd borrowed it on my account. I'd given her my card months earlier, and I'd forgotten.

I walked to the library, paid the £14.50, and asked the librarian if I could keep the book.

"It's in the system as returned a week ago," she said, puzzled. "Drop-off box."

"Returned? By who?"

She looked at the screen. "A girl. She left this inside."

A small folded note, tucked between the pages.

"I didn't forget to return it. I just wanted you to have a reason to come back."