Seunghyun Choi, who has lived his entire life in his hometown, Bordeaux, has arrived to Liverpool in Britain to expand his books which have been very successful back in France, and to continue his teaching career in the university.

Mister Choi was a 27 year old tall, dark brown eyed, handsome man. Hollow cheeks, high defined cheekbones, dark brown hair and strands that were styled on the side, which fall on his eyebrow.

As he stepped his foot into the city which was very crowded yet the streets were very admirable, the classy big train stations, he stood there for a moment, taking shots of every image so it lasts. The fear of never getting along with the people in there has gotten to him. 

He parked his car around his new neighborhood, soon enough, he heard a lullaby played on a violin, people were gathering around where the sound came from, and he joined in, a 14 year old little boy, playing an instrument like that, he made it look easy, he thought. The show was over pretty soon as a young lady, brown eyed and long dark haired, olive skin, 19, probably, arrived on a bike, the little boy stopped playing 

"Come on, Jackie. It's a school night." She told the little boy, who quickly checked his watch, his eyes widened slightly,

[ 6 P.M ] 

He bowed at his very little audience, and they took off as well, smiling. Seunghyun not moving a muscle, he watched the young lady and the little boy get on their bike and ride it away. 

"Pretty city, very pretty." He said to himself as he walked back where his car was parkednserted his headphones to his ears, as he walked to his house, where his car was parked.

Seunghyun owned a big house in Liverpool, not as big as the one back in France, although he preferred an appartement ; his mother loved big houses, and he loved furniture, art masterpieces, he owned many pieces, and he owned a piano as well, an appartement wouldnt be enough for all his equipments. 

He ed his chemisier and threw on a light grey hoodie over his head, and threw himself on the bed. Thoughts rushed in his mind as he stared up at the ceiling, it was dark but he could see its silouhette.

It calmed him down to know that maybe his love for aesthetics, art, books and music has taken too much of his ability to love, so maybe it justifies his inability to be affectionate towards any other person but his mother. He has tried, he really has. But no woman makes his heart beat faster than a beautiful melody can, no woman catches his eye faster than a pretty painting can. Art consoled him, and if he was labeled as cold hearted then it's okay, and if others thought he had no passion then it's okay as well, art took his heart away, and it's okay.

The thoughts wiped the reality dust off his head as he fell into a deep, deep sleep.