Another unfamiliar city.

Another strange new house.

That same out of place gut feeling.

But…

                No matter how many new places I move to, there is always a place that makes me feel at home.

And that place is the library.

The smell of the new and old books.

The warm homey feeling of curling up with my favorite stories.

The exciting new adventure of finding a new one.

Walking up and down the rows upon rows of scaling wooden towers that fill the building just calms me. I would stay there all day. I’d get to know the lovely elderly ladies that dedicate their time and care to the books. She would smile as the door jingled; the bells letting her know I was there.

Four o’clock on the dot. I never failed to arrive at that time. As soon as our teachers released us, I would beeline straight for library. My parents never understood why I liked the libraries so much. But they never questioned it. They just made sure to look up the library hours every time we moved to a new town.

It quickly became routine for me. School. Library. Home. Sleep. And the cycle would repeat until we moved again. I didn’t mind much. A new place just meant a new selection of books to choose from.

Well… that was before we moved to Seoul.

Big city; lots of lights, people… libraries.

So many books in so many places. I chose the closest one to our new house so I wouldn’t have a long walk home at night.

The Jongdok Municipal Library was huge.

Despite its size, there were not many people roaming the building.

So, like always, I became accustom to the columns and rows of books, curling up at a table near the back of the library. The silence and solitude was peaceful, and I liked it that way.

But… one day as I took my usual place at my table, I spotted a boy sitting on the windowsill a few tables down from me. At first glance, it didn’t concern me all that much and his presence was soon forgotten as I settled down in my chair. Leaving the world behind, my thoughts were consumed by words, fully capturing my mind in a new universe.

After a while, I finished the last page and quietly closed it, slowly letting my mind return to the reality of a quiet library. I slid the book to the side and reached into my bag for another, feeling the leather bindings as my hand searched.

As I pulled out another book and had it in my hands, I noticed the boy was still there, reading his book on the windowsill. Again, I really didn’t pay attention to him and proceeded to open my book, eager to indulge myself with a whole new world of characters and ideas.

 But the feeling faded as quickly as it came, for a small sad sniffle broke the silence, causing me to look up toward the windowsill.

The boy was crying. Silent, wet tears ran down his face and fell upon the pages of his book. At first, it concerned me and I almost got up from my chair to go ask if he was okay. That is… until I saw that his eyes were fixed on the book in his hands.

“Is he crying…because of the book?” In all the books that I have read, I have never been moved that much before. Ever. Sure, I’ve read some sad stories before but I have never shed tears over them. This interested me. So there was only one thing to do from there.

I waited another half an hour or so, and the boy wiped his eyes as he shut the book, leaving the windowsill. As soon as he left the book at the front desk and walked through the exit, I walked up and kindly asked the desk lady if I could borrow it.

Smiling at me, she handed it over and I rushed back to my table to look it over. By the time the library closed, I read that book. And… surprisingly enough, a couple of tears fell onto its pages. My tears. As I shut the book and returned it to the front counter, I thought back to that boy.

I thought about him and I smiled, which is something rather odd of me to do because I’m not that rather fond of people. It kind of made me laugh to myself and part of me hoped to see him tomorrow.

The next day passed quickly as it always did and sure enough, I found myself back in the library at four o’clock. And as I climbed the stairs, I looked toward my back corner and the boy was there again, sitting on the windowsill with a different book.

Day after day, I always find him there on the windowsill. I became interested in him but I would carry on with reading my own books as well. I wasn’t as attentive to my books though. I wouldn’t lose myself in them as I did before. The boy interested me a lot and I could usually tell what kind of book he was reading by the way he reacted as the pages turned. Sometimes I would see him smile shyly… laugh out-loud… and even cry again. His expression as he read a suspenseful book was interesting as well. His features would either harden into a scowl or his eyebrows would rise in anticipation.

And usually when he did things like that, I would check the book out too. Then I would come across a certain part in the book and feel myself reacting the same way sometimes. This feeling was new to me and I felt myself enjoying the book more, which I never thought was possible.

That went on for while… I’m not exactly sure how long. I would always look up from my book once in a while and he’d be making some expression that would get me interested.

One day, I don’t know what really happened, but it definitely changed me.

The sun had nearly set and the boy finished the last couple of pages of a book. I could see the last of the sun through his window he sat on and he quietly shut the book on his lap.

He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes… and smiled. God. I didn’t know what hit me but I felt… something. I had seen the boy smile before so I didn’t really get why it impacted me so much at first.

But I know now. I’ve thought about it a lot.

I saw him. Not his expressions. Not his books.

Him.

I saw how stunning he was.

After almost a year of being near him… it finally hit me like a train.

His smile… It lit up his face in the best way.

His feline eyes just sparkled and shined.

I don’t know how I could’ve been so blind before.

I… I wish he would notice me. I wish he’d notice me sitting at my table. Holding the book he read the day before. I wish…

I wish he would smile at me instead of the book.

I want to talk to him.

I want to get to know this boy.

Yet… I’m afraid.

What if he’s nothing like I’ve imagined?

What if… I’m not good enough?

I don’t know the answer to that and I guess I won’t know… not until I get the courage to ask.

One of these days, I’ll find out though. I’ll get up from my table and walk over to his windowsill to ask what book he’s reading. And maybe… just maybe… he will look up at me with that dazzling smile and tell me all about it and then we'll talk about all the books we’ve ever read.

Yet… here I am.

Sitting at my table, gazing at him a few tables away as he gets comfortable on the windowsill with another book.

I am really hopeless… aren’t I?

One of these days though… just wait. Just wait and see…

Maybe I'll join him on that windowsill.

Just maybe...

So here I am.

It’s another unfamiliar city.

It’s another strange new house.

It’s that same out of place gut feeling.

But…

                No matter how many new places I move to, there is always a place that makes me feel at home.

And that place is the library.

But it’s not because of the books. Not my favorite ones. Not the new releases.

I’m writing my own story.

And it’s about a boy.

                                 A boy on the windowsill… with a gorgeous smile.