What if your favorite characters needed your help?
Sunset has always been in love with books, although after the death of her mother, she has stopped believing in happy endings. When she starts working in a library located at the basement of Stard...
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Sweaters, Libraries, and the Guardian of the Fictional World.
We're back at the restaurant and he's laughing at something I said. Our hands graze against each other, and we lock eyes. Time holds still as his gaze holds mine. That's when I decide to label his eye color as green. I mean, I had to take my time to decipher them because they may seem grey, but when you look closely, I'm positive they are green-the lightest shade of green I've ever seen. A wave of cedar and dewy morning grass crashes against me, reminding me of how good his sweater smelled.
Someone knocks on the door, forcing us to break eye contact. Who even knocks on an old, forgotten diner?
Reality washes over me like an ice-bucket pouring over me. My eyes snap open and I gasp for air. I did not just dream that. The blankets slide down my body, a cold rush producing shivers along my arms. But the smell of his sweater felt so real. I frown and my eyes flicker to one side of my bed and the other, and I freeze when I spot the cobalt blue sweater tangled in the fabric of my bedding sheets.
My forehead slams against my right hand. Regret sits heavy at the bottom of my heart, causing my throat to shrink.
I shove the sweater off my bed.
"Ugh." I grumble to the void around me.
The aftermath of an anxiety attack tastes like regret, like a heavy ball of hair stuck in the middle of my throat. I regret so many things. The feeling is so immensely big that I may explode with sadness.
I rub my hands together. Then, I try to feel the coldness of the bedding sheets.
Focus on the senses, Sunset.
I take a deep breath, hugging my knees against my chest.
The decisions I regret start playing in my mind, a juggling mess of knives, sweaters, burgers, and kisses. I grumble again, stepping out of my bed.
As I get dressed, the events start flashing in my head: Me stabbing-trying to stab-my brother's tires and openly failing at doing that in front of no other than Lukah. We had dinner together. That wasn't so bad. I whine when I remember the kiss on the cheek. Damn, I shouldn't have done that. And I kept his sweater and slept next to it-like a creep.
And he drove me home, and he didn't freak out with my anxiety attack, instead, he just drove me home. That's really sweet.
I snatch his sweater up, taking the fabric to the edge of my nostrils. My eyes feather shut as I relish the same scent from last night.
Ugh. Stop right there. I mentally scold myself.
This sweater needs to be returned. I slide my legs in my baggy jeans to finish dressing for my first day at work...or whatever that library is. Putting my plaid shirt jacket on, I kick Lukah's sweater under my undone bed. I'll see how to deal with that later.
