You are a college student.  

 

You have ventured into the back of the library on a mission. It is a Saturday evening. Everyone is out pre-gaming, except for some students who have a midterm coming up, and/or their roommates are the ones hosting parties. Or maybe they have a crush on the librarians. It’s unclear.  

 

You pay them no mind as you head towards the office of the one person you’re desperate to speak with, your last line of defense against the crushing regime of enchantment that plagues you so. The library starts to morph as you walk. The walls transform from moldy plaster to cracked stone; the lights arc down into torches, and the floor turns uneven and gains a layer of dirt. It’s like you’re physically moving backward through time. Which is cool until the rats scurry by your feet. Gross. It’s a good thing you wore close-toed shoes.  

 

When you reach the end of the now cobweb-filled hallway, you find an old wooden door, which creaks inward at your touch to reveal that person you’ve been looking for. Their legs are swung up over the back of their chair, their upper body sprawled flat against their desk. They’re wearing a witch’s hat that somehow remains on their head despite the horizontal position, and you’re pretty sure they’re watching a YouTube video on the phone that’s suspended between their knees.  

 

“Hello?” you ask, scaring the shit out of them.  

 

They promptly drop the phone and swing around in their chair, grabbing a half-broken sword from where it was leaning against their rusty filing cabinet and pointing it at your chest. It’s probably not quite as intimidating as they would have hoped. You’re not too scared anyway because they drop it immediately.  

 

“Oh. I thought you were Doug.”  

 

You’re pretty sure you’re not Doug. At least not their Doug.  

 

“What are you doing here?” they ask.  

 

“I was told you were the person I needed,” you respond.  

 

They regard you blankly. “I mean. I could be.”  

 

Steeling yourself, you move to take a seat in the wooden chair that’s clearly meant for guests, but upon second glance, it appears too rotted to hold a person’s weight. You stand with your hands clasped in front of you. “I have a request.”  

 

The witch raises one eyebrow. “Okay. Name it.”  

 

“I want to write a story without romance.”  

 

There’s a moment of stillness during which the witch stares at you, long enough to creep you out, and then long enough to wonder if they’re trying to cast something on you.  

 

“You mean the main character doesn’t have a romantic interest?” they ask, finally.  

 

You nod.  

 

“Do any of the side characters have romantic subplots?”  

 

You shake your head.  

 

“Are any of the guest stars involved in romances?”  

 

You shake your head again.  

 

“No hint at any romantic liaisons whatsoever? No one has parents?”  

 

“No one has parents,” you repeat. You’ve done your research.  

 

The witch laughs. “Yeah, sorry. No.”  

 

You blink, disappointed. “No?” 

 

“It’s not possible.” They flop back down into their chair, kicking up some dust. “You can’t write a story without romance.”  

 

“What? Yes, I can!” you counter. “Haven’t people done it before?”  

 

“Nope,” they reaffirm, popping the ‘p.’ “It’s been attempted, but never successfully carried out.”  

 

You find that hard to believe. “But, what if my story doesn’t involve humans?”  

 

“Are you writing a children’s story?”  

 

“Well, no.”  

 

“Then it has to involve humans.”  

 

You ponder. “Okay. What if they’re aliens?”  

 

“You’re going to write a story about aliens and not include any weird alien sex and/or romance?”  

 

“Yes!” 

 

“Boring.”  

 

“Okay, but—but what if my story is really short? What if there’s no time for romance?”  

 

“Still boring. What are the characters even doing, then? Talking to each other?”  

 

“You were supposed to help me!” you snap. “Everyone said that you were the one who knew the secret. That you wrote something without romance. Are you saying you tried and failed?”  

 

The witch leans forward over their desk. The two of you have drifted closer over the course of the argument, and their gaze bores into you with cold impact. “What’s my name?”  

 

For some reason, the question haunts you. You search your thoughts for the answer, but like a fog over your brain, it continues to evade you. “I… don’t remember.”  

 

“Exactly.” They sit back in their chair. “That’s because you’re not supposed to know me. Just like I’m not supposed to help you. Everyone leaves here the same way. Fewer and fewer they’ve been these days, but still they come. And still they don’t realize.”  

 

The witch’s face ages quite suddenly and rapidly, as though burdened by the knowledge they hold. You might not want to receive the information so cursed the library felt the need to hide it away in a time capsule. But you’re feeling particularly young and invulnerable, so you ask, “What don’t they realize?”  

 

The witch stares deep into your soul. “That everyone, everywhere is incredibly lonely all the time. That we as human beings strive solely for connection, for someone to love us entirely, for all that we are, and to love them entirely. We’re detached from codependency in the womb and then spend the rest of our lives trying to find it again. We are, at heart, looking for love.”  

 

You balk at their words. “I’m not.”  

 

“Sure.”  

 

“I’m not! And can’t people love each other entirely without romance?”  

 

“Yeah, sure, in real life. This is fiction.”  

 

“Fiction is inspired by real life, though.”  

 

The witch shoots you an unimpressed look. “Have you ever had to share a bed with your crush? Hopelessly flirted with a cashier for weeks on end? Picked someone up as a fake date to your cousin’s wedding and fallen madly in love?”  

 

“You’re just listing fanfic tropes.”  

 

“My point,” they say, lifting a finger, “is that all of these are popular for a reason. They’re not realistic. They’re all romantic. Have you ever gone to fanfiction for anything else?”  

 

Sometimes you do, but that’s irrelevant. You roll your eyes. “I’m not writing fanfiction, though. I want to write something original.”  

 

“Nothing is original, sweetheart.”  

 

“And I don’t care what’s popular or what sells or anything like that.”  

 

“You don’t care if no one reads your story?” You fall silent at that and the witch presses on. “Writing is meant to take people out of the mundane. If you write a story where some poor sap is born, lives, and dies alone, what’s the point? That’s not going to make anyone happy, and you’re not going to get renown unless you have talent, connections, or were born in the 19th century.”  

 

“Whatever,” you dismiss. “My characters can make connections with each other without sleeping together. Without going on dates. Without kissing or touching at all.”  

​

“Ooo! That would be a feat.” If the glint in their eye is anything to go off, you feel the witch is mocking you. “Sorry you wasted a trip back here, but you’re going to fail. Better to bite the bullet and include a romance between two of the lesser characters. Heck, make it three. Or, if you want to really succeed, have everyone in be in love in various stages and don’t resolve it until the end.”  

 

“Okay, enough.” You back away, cutting off the witch’s rambling. “Clearly I came to the wrong place. There must be another Eros around here—”  

 

The witch’s gaze snaps up to yours so fast it startles you. The two of you lock eyes for what feels like an eternity. “You said my name,” they whisper.  

 

Your heart starts thumping as you realize they’re right. “I did.” You shrug. “I guess I didn’t forget.”  

 

Slowly, still in shock, the witch maneuvers around the desk and comes chest-to-chest with you, not quite inside your personal bubble, but close enough that you could just reach out and touch them. “No one’s ever remembered my name before.”  

 

It feels warmer in the room, all of a sudden. Is it warmer? Maybe the witch did cast something because it feels like you’re sweating. Like the world is spinning around them and only them. “This is… not normal,” you say idly.  

 

“No, it isn’t.” The witch lifts their hands, moving them hesitantly toward your cheeks with awe in their eyes. “You’re special.”  

 

You know what’s going on here.  

 

“No!” You smack their hands away. “No, no, no! I will not be tricked into this!”  

 

The witch shakes their head. “It’s destiny.”  

​

“Can’t we just be friends?”  

​

“Wouldn’t be as narratively satisfying.”  

​

“No!”  

​

You collapse dramatically onto the wooden chair, and the extensive rot pushes the structure to give way, as predicted, so you almost fall dramatically to the floor. But you’re caught at the last moment, the witch hauling you up with impressive strength, so you fall into them instead. You do allow yourself a moment of weakness before pushing away again.  

 

“No. No, we can’t do this.”  

 

“You can’t deny your feelings. You’ll just be playing into the angst trope.”  

 

“No.” 

​

“We’re a slow burn now.”  

 

“No.”  

 

“Would you be open to a polyamorous relationship with Doug?”  

 

You groan and spin on your heel, knowing you’ll be taking the memory of Eros with you. Eros. Their name already feels familiar on your tongue. This is all wrong. You should have gone to your safety school.