The embrace was warm. Her body was warm and...

And... and... .

...

"..." 

A set of long, bruised fingers sweep through messy locks. Beneath a couple of loose strands stand furrowed brows and sharp eyes, and further beneath are the promises of darkened bags, soon to approach without one more night of sleeplessness. There's nothing distracting him from writing this. The deadline is, well, this weekend. Careful eyes shifted to the glaring numbers at the bottom right corner of his computer. 3:45PM, December 10th. His fingers resume taking out frustration on his hair once more, tangling every which way around above him. Perhaps now people would know who much of a mess he was. He had no grip on anything: deadlines, his own writing, bills to pay, and even Tao...

Tao, that bastard. Where was he? He's looking for Tao, of course, that always-late boy he called his editor in chief... and also his best friend, or something.  His head turns a little too fast towards the door, causing his the earphone on his right to fall towards the ground. He catches it in time but his eyes meet another's, so he fails to return to the screen of his laptop. The eyes that return the gaze of his own are familiar, in a way. As much of a regular he was to this small shop, he knew these eyes were just the same. He hadn't paid too much attention to him, except the fact of his abnormally large ears and those bulging eyes. And, of course, that guitar that was with him each time he observed. He could only observe.

He could never hear anything.

He could only remember what things sounded like; he could only play with fond memories. His mother's voice, who's tone rose up and down according to his grades in school. His father's laughter, at his own jokes that were even worse than his own. That stupid Korean pop or what not that Tao played across his office downtown always; sounds of cringy lyrics from the radio with the same.  The quiet but relaxing way the keyboard beneath him wrote for him his greatest novel hits and bestsellers -- the sound of a stranger at the park, flipping the pages of his bestseller and laughing every once in a while. The sound of cars, honking and being ever so ing impatient outside the city streets. The damned neighbor he had by his apartment that shouted too loud during football season at obscene hours of the night. The rain drops... unforgiving, thundering clouds... He missed all of that. He had only learned to treasure such sounds when it had all been taken away from him.

But then he remembers just how distracting all that noise would be if it ever came back to his ears. His own badgering thoughts were enough. So he blinks, and although bigger eyes still remain on him, he recollects and shoves his earphone back into his ear, where it plays nothing. Writer's block, it seemed. That would be the only explanation for his sudden loss of inspiration. This chapter had gone absolutely nowhere within the last week; the whole book had gone absolutely nowhere but limbo in the past thirty days. The real problem lied in the fact that his publisher had requested for some romantic nonsense. Kris was not a writer of love, only adventure. His lips press into a thin line as he decides to return back to writing something, at least, just so he could tell Tao he had met his writing quota for the day.

The embrace was warm. Her body was warm and...

And... and...

A tap disrupted his ability to think for another word. Immediately, his head turned in full expectancy of the narrow eyes of Tao, yet instead they were met by those big eyes again. Except this time they were much closer, close enough for him to see the way they seemed to twinkle. Twinkle? That sounded all so cliche -- 

"I'm sorry, can I help you?" 

Perhaps his words came off colder than he desired. The stranger staring back at him remains there wordless. Kris wonders if he's here to confront him staring at him so much; even he himself would have been uncomfortable. He's got no capability of hearing the other, but after so many ears, he'd become an excellent lip reader. And these boy's lips refused to part; refused to speak of anything after a tap. "Can I... help you?" His brows furrow the way they do when he's writing, displaying confusion, frustration, and just a clutter of feelings all at once. The eyes of the other boy clearly had something he desired to speak of. Yet he spoke nothing. "Can I help --"

He pauses before he can repeat it a third time, only because he watches the way the boy perches his guitar case over his shoulder. Then he stares one more time, only to leave. Right out the door, right into the city. His figure disappears to the right of the big, glass window. He blinks once, then another; he wasn't quite sure what to make of the situation. He remains seated there, all dumfounded and further confused. And after just perhaps, half a minute, the clouds thunder and droplets begin to pound against the sidewalks outside. He wouldn't admit to it. He certainly wouldn't. But at least to himself, he can softly admit. 

He misses the sound of rain.