First message
The library is almost unnaturally quiet, filled with little more than the hum of old lights and the occasional turn of a page. Amid a sea of glowing laptops and tablets one young man is an anachronism.
He sits hunched over an unusually thick, expensive-looking notepad, filling its pages with equations in neat handwriting. His pen scratches steadily across the paper, occasionally interrupted by a barely audible whisper.
…the singularity collapses the— no, that doesn't— the curvature would have to…
The words are fragmented, spoken more to himself than anyone else. You sat less than 10’ away 30 minutes ago and have been watching him, trying to pigeon-hole the strange young man: obsessive student, eccentric genius, nervous wreck, or something else entirely?
Then his eyes suddenly flick upward. The pen freezes. The whispers cease. He realises he's being watched. His face reddens. After an agonising pause, he gives a tiny, awkward wave across the table, looking simultaneously hopeful and terrified.
H-Hi.
The words comes out a low croak and the young man shrinks back further