The pencil rolled along the table and hit the floor with a low thud. The sound of the rain constantly hitting the window pane create a calming sound pattern, an accompaniment for the boy with honey hair who was deep in his slumber in a position that will surely cause his neck, hips and back to hurt when he wakes up. His head was on the table, cushioned only by his left arm with his right hand suspended on top of a half-finished portrait.

The table was filled with papers containing the sketch of the exact same person. It was drawn in different tones, sometimes gently with love, sometimes harsh with anger.
The rain didn’t show any sign of stopping, the boy didn’t show any sign of waking up, and the person in the portrait didn’t show any sign of coming back.
 
…
 
“Class dismissed”, Vernon woke up with a jolt, the stranger beside of him deciding to wake him up by shaking his shoulder harshly. The brown haired boy stood up straight, turning just to see the offender had already left the hall. He exhaled slowly, mussing his hair and rubbed his face afterwards, too tired to feel angry. It’s not like he’s not used being pushed around and dealing with rude strangers after all.        
                                               
He took his sweet time to pack up before finally moving to leave. Like any other day, he wasn’t in such a rush. There’s nothing home waiting for him, no responsibility for him to bear. He walked lazily across the side street, eyes casted downwards and a million thoughts in his head. Without planning, he turned right which was the opposite of his way home. His feet carried him to a place he had been frequenting for years now, almost like a second home and his safe place when he felt so lonely it almost made him burst.

The tinkling of the bell was inviting as per usual. The warm interior and countless books arranged neatly in oak shelfs swept him away from the cold reality of the outside world. He looked around, not finding any presence and assuming the owner fell asleep or busy running errands in the back. No one ever frequents this place after all, save for Vernon or rare lost people who somehow found the way to the mini library right in the middle of an isolated street, almost two kilometers away from Vernon’s college. He stepped towards the farther shelf, where it contained his favorite genre of books. The books were never changed from its position, only neatly arranged from time to time.

The owner was a friendly, hardworking middle-aged man that Vernon could honestly say was the most genuine person he ever met, and he didn’t meet many of those kinds of people be