Zhang Yixing (EXO), OC; slice of life, romance (CHEESE); G; 549 words
Swirls of ink, letters scattered across lines, pages filled with words. With a dog-eared journal in her hand, she’s ready to capture the world within papers, pen scribbling on pulp, repainting what she sees, what she hears, what she feels, into an endless pit of narration.
The world is filled with sins, she thinks. Lust, gluttony, pride. Even the traditional seven deadly sins could not contain how dirty the world is. By her words, she can make an entirely different world–a world that is ideal for her, albeit not perfect thus the occupants will forever be happy within, but good enough to live in. While the air of the real world is suffocating, she can breathe in her world’s air to survive–it’s relieving enough, like a spring breeze after the choking air of winter.
With the words’ company, she will never be alone. That’s what she believes since she learned the way to tie a relationship with juggled letters.
Until a man decided to sit in front of her at a bustling cafe one afternoon. Indeed, there’s no chair left, and indeed, she doesn’t mind sharing table with strangers, but she does mind when said someone decided to pop her bubble of comfort up.
“You write,” the intruder says after long resounding silence, fondness dancing beneath his droopy eyes.
“I write,” she repeats, clearly uninterested. She looks up to catch a glimpse of dimple on his cheek, and tousled brown hair, and sharp cheekbones, but turns her attention back to her moleskin nonetheless. There’s something she needs to finish and this can’t wait, not at all, or else the ideas will vanish and she’ll hate herself for a long time for it.
The intruder chuckled, and silence follows once again until the sound of shifted chair resonates in the air, indicating the man’s leave.
She doesn’t lift her nose from the notebook. They’re strangers, after all; this is what strangers who share tables at a cafe do. Stay with their respective business and not intruding the others’, minding their own lives and not starting random conversations. Unless you have a habit of hitting on somebody at random places, which is kind of strange, but…
A single tap on her shoulder and she looks up, annoyance clear on her face. The dimpled intruder slips a piece of paper at the back of her ear with an easy smile before walking out of the cafe
There, written in scrawly handwriting, was the words ‘your writing is good, really; i’m sorry i read it without your permission, i was too curious and i think you wouldn’t let me read it even if i asked you.
anyway, i like to write, too–though not as good as yours–and i kind of had read some books you listed in the page you were writing on? maybe we can meet to discuss the books… or something else. it’s nice to meet someone who has similar taste in book with me.‘
It’s cheesy, and too straightforward for her liking, but she heats up nonetheless. At the very bottom of the paper, in the same scrawly handwriting, was a row of numbers and three alphabets–ZYX, she supposes it’s his sign. Maybe.
He’s clearly hitting on her, and she doesn’t mind it at all.
note: i should be studying for an upcoming pretest, but well…