Writing our own tragic love story // dnf

I

This took me 1.5 weeks. I've finally finished this but I'll still be stuck on this—I am emotionally attached.
Shoutout to probablypluto for helping me with the ending 🤜🤛 I'm so cracked

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Word count: 19747
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The comforting smell of books and coffee filled the man's senses as he opened the heavy doors to the library.

Going to the library was a part of his routine, to look for books to read or inspiration for his own books.

Sometimes simply sits in his usual seat by the large window at the back of the library with a warm cup of chocolate with whipped cream on top beside his laptop.

His laptop was in his bag hanging off his shoulder which looked oddly familiar to a briefcase, his long fingers wrapped around the strap of his bag, palms red as he was holding it tightly.

The man wasn't in a real writing mood today, hoping to find a decent book that he could kill his endless amount of time reading.

He had enough time in his opinion to finish his next novel—which was around three months, already more than halfway done.

The middle aged receptionist welcomed him, her grey turning hair loosely pulled into a hair clip at the back of her head, her bangs falling neatly in front of her ears.

She had a warm smile, always nice to everyone that came into the library and her glasses that sat on the bridge of her nose making her look even more welcoming.

The man was a regular visitor at the library, knowing almost every staff member by name and occasionally talked to them.

He smiled back, nodding his head in the woman's direction and causing a strand of his long blond hair falling between his eyes.

The man was tall, around 6'2 or 6'3, with bright green eyes with brown accents in the middle of his pupils.

His skin tone was tan, not as tan as people from Florida usually would be, freckles covering his face and arms.

Eyes skimmed over the book covers, a novel that he had already read multiple times and other ones that he had heard of, never finding the will to read them.

The man was a ghost writer, no one knew who he really was.

Well, a few of his closest friends and his parents knew who he was. He went by the name 'Dream' no one would expect that it was him.

He had published three books—all young adult novels—already at the prime age of twenty five after moving away from his native country and to England.

Living in London wasn't all that difficult as he originally thought, he had all he needed in close walking distance from his apartment.

Such as a grocery store—which he could also get sent to his house, the library and a bookstore, as well as a few neat restaurants.

His books were all romance novels, none of them particularly straight.

Because the man wasn't straight himself, hence why he felt uncomfortable writing heterosexual romance.

It was just a personal preference, in his opinion, even though people that disliked his literature disagreed with him.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, that thing annoying him all the time but not enough to snap him out of his thoughts when it buzzed with a notification.

He almost felt hazy skimming around the shelves, the smell of coffee tingling his nostrils as the blond got closer to the staircase up to the third floor.