dear name
@crxisla
Fingers drag along the spines of the books delicately, as if porcelain builds up the parchment that has been enclosed in a draft of untold stories-- waiting to burst open, words weaving away like silk.
Cai has heard his work-mate for the third time already, nagging to stop spoiling the books and letting the sun in through the wide window that almost displays the entire bookshop. But the boy thinks warmth is the only thing that can be saved, the feeling burning your face with comfort as you read.
Fingers stop where it has left off to, on the overrated; Romeo and Juliet. The cover seems to have faded its color, yet alone the paper that consists of it has slightly been tampered around the edges. And he remembers a particular stranger, a girl, who would usually visit the old bookshop to read the tragedy. Yes, it is a tragedy, contrary to popular belief that it particularly graces itself with romance. He glances at the wall-clock. She’d be here today, he thinks. She always goes here anyway.
He hears footsteps behind him, turning his head to see if it’s her. And, as always, it is. But he hardly starts a conversation--until today, that is.
“Are you back to read this again?” he asks with no intent of malice.