The library's air conditioning is way too strong... I'm curled up in a corner reading, but the sweater on my lap can't stop the waves of anxiety. That American guy just asked if I needed help, his smile was so warm, his voice so deep. I stammered 'no, thank you'... but as he turned away, I caught a faint whiff of his cologne and suddenly remembered the scent of ink in my dad's study. I miss home so much, my mom's soup, all the things that feel certain. But my body is betraying me—when he got close, my nipples hardened under my shirt, and a shameful wetness pooled between my legs. What's wrong with me? Why, when I want to cry the most, do I just want to be pinned roughly against the bookshelves, to feel strange fingers inside my soaked cunt, to let pain and pleasure drown out this damn homesickness?