As we entered the bookstore, you saw how his eyes lit up as if they saw something amazing. He told you how much he loved reading, both fiction and non-fiction. He told you how during his trainee years, books were the best escape from this daily and rigorous schedules.

We walked around the bookstore, browsing, picking up books and setting them down. He suddenly grabbed your hand and rushed you up the stairs, to his favorite author, Murakami. He searched through the books one by one, as you waited, sitting on the sofa by the shelf. You looked at him and giggled. He looked like a 5 year old picking out his favorite book, searching and sighing when it wasn't what he was looking for.

"Which one are you looking for..?," you asked, looking up at him. 

"I..I forgot the name but if I read the description..,I'll know..,"he replied, turning books back and forth.

"AH..I found it YN, I have to let you read my favorite passage..in here.,"he said, a smile flashing on his face as he flipped through the pages. Words and phrases had a special way of being engraved in his heart, breaking the walls that he had build around his emotions. 

He handed you the book 'Kafka by the Shore." and turned to a page to have you read a passage that said..

"All kinds of things are happening to me. Some I chose, some I didn’t. I don’t know how to tell one from another anymore. What I mean is, it feels like everything’s been decided in advance – that I’m following a path somebody else has already mapped out for me. It doesn’t matter how much I think things over, how much effort I put into it. In fact, the harder I try, the more I lose my sense of who I am. It’s like my identity’s an orbit that I’ve strayed far away from, and that really hurts. But more than that, it scares me. Just thinking about it makes me flinch."

"Do you still feel like this,"you asked, reaching for his hand,"is it still the same..,?"

"No, this was...me before you..I felt lost. I felt like I didn't know how I was as a person, most people called me cold but I felt...different with you..,"he replied, placing his hands in yours. 

You squeezed his hand in response to his little confession. You could slowly see the walls around his heart breaking down, as he opened himself to you, bit by bit. Oh how you wished...that you both had opened to each other sooner...

We walked around the bookstore some more. Isle by Isle, we looked at our favorite books, reading to each other, our favorite quotes. With each quote we read, we shared an intimate part of our life, our mind and our persona. He liked tragic love stories, something about the characters, pulled him closer to the story. You on the other hand, liked love stories also, but stories with hope and happy endings. 

You picked out a book and handed it to him, it contained your favorite quote by Emily Bronte:

"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."

"Oh...that's nice..who were you thinking of when you read it the first time..?,"he asked, a mischevious smile on his face as he le