This is the edited version I submitted to my creative writing class. They critiqued it, and told me their thoughts. Many bruised egos later, I finished editing that version, added onto it, and came up with what is below. I spent over a month perfecting this and I really hope that you will enjoy what I have come up with. I also replaced the poster c: Please leave your comments and tell me what you think. Thank you ♥

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another unfamiliar city.

Another strange new house.

That same out of place feeling.

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

That place is the library.

The addicting scent of the cinnamon and leather, the warm intimate feeling of curling up with my favorite stories –the exciting adventure of finding a new one… I feel more at home there than any house I’ve ever been in.

Walking up and down rows upon rows of scaling wooden towers that furnish the building calms me. Some say that the closed off space makes them feel trapped or unnerving. To me, sitting among those shelves is like sitting at a grandmother’s kitchen table to others.  If I didn’t have academic duties to attend to, I would be perfectly content staying there all day.

On weekdays, I’d arrive at five fifteen on the dot. Just like how I would never fail to walk through the doors at that time, things would soon become routine. As soon as the teachers released us, I would make a beeline straight for library, pick up a book, and sit in a quiet isolated part of the building. Soon, I’d get to know the charming elderly ladies that dedicated their free time and care to the books. When I’d step foot in the entryway, they would smile in welcome.

My parents don’t understand why I like libraries so much, but they aren’t quick to judge and never question it. As long as I spend a fair amount of time on my studies and my exams scores reflect that, they allow me to do as I please. They just make sure to look up the library hours every time we relocate to a new town and stick a post-it note on the fridge.

The routine tended to be the same everywhere we went. Drone my way through eight hours of school, go to the library, get home in time for supper, and then sleep. Then, the cycle would repeat until my father’s business took us elsewhere. I didn’t mind much. A new place just meant a new selection of books to choose from.

Things changed a bit though when we moved to Seoul. Being a large city with lots of lights and people wouldn’t usually appeal to me, but within all the hustle and bustle, I found that there’s bound to be an impressive amount of libraries to choose from. There were so many books in so many places that I didn’t know if I’d be able to choose. In the end, I chose the closest one to our apartment building so I wouldn’t have to worry about a long walk home at night.

The Jongdok Municipal Library to this day stands as the biggest library I’ve been in yet. Despite its size, there wasn’t an annoying amount of people roaming the building like I would have expected.

So like always, I became accustomed to the columns and rows of books to curling up at a table near the back of the library. The solitude of the third floor was peaceful. Distant fluttering of turning pages and soft hum of voices created pleasant background noise, and I liked it that way.

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, he wasn’t much to look at. I supposed he was an ordinary student, maybe eighteen if I had to guess his age, with brown feline eyes and ruffled jet black hair. He didn’t concern me all that much and his presence was soon forgotten as I settled down in my chair with another novel. Leaving the world behind, fictitious words quickly consumed my thoughts and fully captured 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 soon 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 plain boy was still there reading his book on the windowsill. Again, I ignored 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. A few 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 had never been moved that much before. Sure, I had read some sad stories before but I had never shed tears over them. This interested me. Naturally, for me, 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 lady working 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 had read that book. 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 for me to do because I’m not that fond of people. It kind of made me laugh to myself and part of me hoped to see him tomorrow.

The next day passed as it always did and sure enough, I found myself back in the library at five fifteen. 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 found him there on the windowsill. I became interested in him but carried on with reading my own books. However, I noticed that I wasn’t as attentive to them. 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 now and again. His expression as he read a suspenseful book intrigued me as well. His features rather humorously hardened into a scowl or his eyebrows strained as they rose high in anticipation.

Usually when he did things like that, I checked the book out too. Then more often than not, I’d come across a certain part and feel myself reacting the same way. 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 would look up from my book every so often and he would make some expression that would get me interested.

It has been about six months since I noticed him sitting there on the windowsill.

But something happened a week ago. Something I didn’t see coming. I usually don’t like what I can’t predict but…I think that over the last couple of months that part of me changed a bit.

At the start of the day, it didn’t seem any different than any other. I walked to school, class bored me as usual, I made my way to the library, and the boy already sat comfortably on his perch by the time I got there. We both read respectively and I glanced up at him from time to time, hoping to catch a glimpse of his expressions as he flipped through the pages. It was nearly time to go home by the time the boy finished the last couple of pages of his book. I could see the last of the sun through his window he sat on and he quietly shut the book, gently setting it on his lap. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes…and smiled.

I didn’t know what hit me, but I felt… something. I felt warm, happy even. My stomach flipped uncomfortably, and I was embarrassed and confused as to why my cheeks burned. I had seen the boy smile before so I didn’t really get why it impacted me so much.

I’ve thought about it a lot though. Sitting at my table the past couple of days, I had been trying to figure it out.

“Think realistically. Come up with a hypothesis and deduce your reasoning.” I imagined that’s what my father would say and tried to approach the feeling that way, but I didn’t get very far with it. It didn’t feel like something I could compare to facts, or just look up in one of his encyclopedias.

Deciding to look to the library for advice, I flipped through different books I had read: fantasy, science-fiction, historic, realistic, non-fiction, classics, new releases, and many others. With my table covered in open books, two specific quotes stood out to me.

“I fell in love like the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.” – The Fault in Our Stars, John Green.

I thought about this phrase, questioned it, doubted it…considered it. What did I see in this boy? I looked up from the page to the boy, and observed for a while, soon finding my answer.

I finally looked at the boy and saw him. Not his interesting expressions. Not the book in his hands.

I saw him.

“And then he gives me a smile that just seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me.” – The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins.

I saw how stunning he is.

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

His feline eyes just sparkle and shine.

The quirky little bounce in his step shows a child-like nature when he searches for a new book.

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. Then maybe… just maybe… he will look up at me with that dazzling smile and tell me all about it along with all the books we’ve ever read.

But, here I am sitting at my table, gazing at him a few tables away as he finishes the last couple of pages of his book on the windowsill. I am really hopeless… aren’t I?

Rubbing my thumb over the book in my hand, I scan the cover.

‘Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones. He read this yesterday and smiled a lot while reading it…I wonder what kind of character Howl is?’

Opening the book, I spot a blue post-it note with a scribbled note on the first page.

‘To Mr. Curious that sits at the table near the far corner,

I’m going to the café around the corner to grab a coffee. Want to come? Check the book out first though, I promise it’s good.

Key’

I can only imagine what kind of surprised, goofy expression my face holds and I lift my head when I hear a shuffle from the windowsill. The boy –Key, bag in hand, gives a small smile before heading toward the exit. Shutting the cover of the book, I quickly shrug my coat on my shoulders before rushing to the check-out counter.

It may have been another unfamiliar city.

It may have been another strange new house.

It may have been that same out of place feeling.

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

That place is the library.

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

I’m writing my own story.

It’s about a boy.

A boy on the windowsill… with a gorgeous smile.