quartz street ➢ brad simpson [au]

four

// monday //

His lips were pursed most of the time. 

I was never sure if he was humming a tune or just plainly closemouthed, thinking about relevant things, but nonetheless, I was never like that.

While I read, I would always say the words quietly. It was a bad habit of mine, so I wanted to be more like him. A bit more reserved and nothing short of memorable.

He was a book, while I was a movie.

At first, he'd be a carefully thought of and polished manuscript, then he'd be proofread by editors because of how significant and beautiful he is and supposed to be, and then published to be loved by the world. He'd be in the bookstores until sold out.

He was molded to be more and more breathtaking with each page turned. He was written to perfection.

I was a movie.

I was some rip-off from a famous book; negatively-taken by the people and ultimately criticized from the smallest detail. I would probably only be adored for a week, and it would be like I never existed at all, once I disappear from the bigscreen.

I was made forgettable.

The bookshop was never full; there were only just a handful of people in it from day to day, usually ones who wanted to find solace in such a problematic world.

I loved my break, because that's when I'm consoled indirectly by that boy across me. 

Sometimes, I wouldn't even pay attention to what I was reading anymore, because I'd be too occupied observing him drinking his beverage. 

I would mutter things under my breath, like how deep his dimples were when he would have his lips tight together. I would just drone about him for the whole half an hour.

I could stare at him all day.