KPOP IMAGINES

Sanha Imagine

Sitting by the window sill, the night breeze caressed your skin. Carefully flipping through the pages of the novel you're reading, afraid to wrinkle the page. You fell inlove with its content. Too engrossed, too absorbed. The book was new and heavy, the leather felt soft and delicate as you ran your fingers over the gold lettering that spelled out; Innocent Love. 

If reading was a sport then you'd probably win a gold medal. You love Books. But that doesn't mean you don't have a life. Nor that you're a nerd. It's just that you like how the book smells and the feeling you get from the brittleness of the pages. How the black ink in poetic lines tumble down the page. It's magical.

People say that books are nothing but humanity's attempts to escape reality, but you disagree. Because the world of fantasy didn't make you escape reality, it helped you survive reality. 

You continued to read, your eyes almost crossing; He rang the bell twice hoping she would answer the door. Completely soaked in rain from head to toe, his eyes gives a clue of sadness. He rang it again. 

Now, for the third time.

Then your door rang. Well, as mentioned earlier. Books are magical. If you read one something magical will happen.

"Who could it be at this time?" You looked at the clock. It was a little late. Your mom left for a business trip, it couldn't be her. The doorbell rings again, tinny and grating.

"Who is it?" It didn't replied. Instead it rang the bell for the last time.

"Who is it?" you asked once again, this time with a pinch of anger in your voice. 

You swore that if it's the neighbor's kids playing with you, you wouldn't think twice about stabbing then with an icepick. They're not going to stop you from reading and stand up from your comfortable position.

"Please open up." a gentle voice almost begged from the other side.

You clipped your bookmark to the page and shut the book close. Stomping in annoyance you made your way to the door.

"What do you want? It's 10 pm, can't it wait tomorrow?" When the door opens for the man, you almost choke in surprise. The water dripped down his hair softly. The drops slowly made their way into his clothes. There were sadness in her eyes, the brown too glossy. He was very pale, ashen, lips almost blue.

"Thank God." His voice trails slowly when he speaks. He swayed for just a moment before stumbling forward, falling on your arms.

"A-Are you okay?" He was barely breathing. You lowered him to the ground. His pulse was very weak. You dragged him to the living room by the arm. His damp clothes was weighing him down, making every step a struggle.

You ran your hand over your head. 

"Is he dead?" he coughed, giving you the answer to your question. Your eyes averted it's gaze outside. The soft, night breeze calmly blowing through your window. What startled you the most was that not a single drop of rain fell from the sky. 

You looked at him again. Why is he soaked up and cold? You shook your thoughts and ran to grab a towel for the poor fella. 

He was unconscious for a couple of minutes. You stared at him sleeping for the whole time, biting your nails. It happens every time you're nervous, one of the bad habits you have.