𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲 ❞

three ; lemon washed

Ben's ::

He walked inside his home, and a warm feeling hugged his heart. It was a sweet emotion that ran through his body every time he returned home after a long day. He could smell the beef cooking, and he could hear his father preparing the spice, all the while humming a soft tune. Ben never got to know what tune it was; for all he knew, his father had made it up when he wouldn't sleep and demanded a lullaby. He went to his room, kept his bag in place, and ran off to help his father in cooking, or maybe eating.

Their house wasn't much; just a two-bedroom apartment in Lesman Quarters, on the third avenue. The neighborhood wasn't one of the best, but the cleanliness and accessibility made it look appealing. The house was painted a beautiful combination of yellow and pink, with the kitchen painted light blue. The living room had a soft smell of fresh flowers, for his father was a florist and brought home a bunch of flowers every day for Ben. They were set nicely in the vase on the small table, surrounding which was a sofa and a couch, and the television set. On the other side of the room, just in front of the kitchen counter, was the dining table.

The father-son duo dined and chatted about their day. Ben's father asked, "You came rather late today; something held you up?" Ben wistfully thought of the true reason, but lied, "Of course not! The Sunset is later than usual today. I didn't understand it was time to leave." Ben's father readily accepted the answer but was still doubtful. Nevertheless, he changed the subject. "You would be taking the day off tomorrow? You said you'll be helping me with the succulents." Ben sighed, thrust a strip of meat in his mouth, and replied, "You know I don't like that work." "Then why'd you say you'd help?" "You get tired moving the bigger plants around, and neither can you reach for the top shelves. I don't want you to sprain your ankle while trying to do it." His father asked playfully, "Are you implying I'm short?" Ben laughed it off and shook his head, and served them both some salad and broth. They had their dinner and Ben did the dishes.

He wasn't around for a major part of the day, and he felt guilty for having his old father do the daily chores, and always made it a point to help him as much as he could. Ben had been brought up by his father with the utmost care, and he just hoped he could show his dad that he loved him as much as he could love someone. He peeked into his father's room to make sure he had gone to bed and then tiptoed to his own.

His room was a well-kept assortment of various books and things. His bed was up against the window, so the breeze came in on him. On each side of the window was a bookshelf. Ben sat on his bed, reading notes from a book and trying to play the guitar. Music was the only thing he'd gotten from his mother- she'd taught him how to play the guitar. He hummed a soft tune and strummed it on the strings. He thought of the boy from the library, channeling his wistfulness and earnestness into the music. Ben wouldn't be seeing him tomorrow; he felt funny at the fact that he was so emotionally attached to a guy who was a total stranger.

He didn't even know the boy's name, but he craved his presence every day, every moment. With every strum of the guitar, his mind drifted more into the thoughts of the blue-haired male. He was curious about him; what was his story? What was he hiding behind the stoic face and sad eyes? Why did he always look away and afar, like he was floating off into another reality? He was a silent and mysterious guy, but his eyes were one of the most expressive eyes Ben had ever looked at. He could see the boy struggling to hold himself together at times, and the tears which fell on his book at times didn't go unnoticed by Ben. His pain was a mystery yet so beautiful that one couldn't help but tangle themselves into it. Ben was getting so affected due to the other's ache, he felt a tear roll down his cheek. He promptly brushed it off and closed the music notes. He encased the guitar, and lay down, switching off the bedside lamp. He pulled the duvet, and whispered a soft, "Good night, my love," hoping that the wind would carry these words far away, to the person he'd addressed them to. If only he knew that nights were the worst for that person...

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