As she silently settled onto her seat, her eyes vividly began dancing and established themselves on the page that her fingers tried to trace.
She began reading.
You and I might be forced to think that she was oblivious to the silence around her, but we might think, or we may think, or it may not be so.
Her loneliness in the dead of the night surprised her, and made her weirdly content.
And suddenly, almost notoriously, the water droplets began to spur her. They came, almost abruptly, like perhaps, by accident. She panicked, and her arms closed around her book.
What followed was an awkward moment, wherein she couldn't decide if closing the window was a better option to moving.
And then, as abruptly as before, she calmed down and smiled.
She sat where she did, did not rush to close the window, and let the rain drops replenish her troubled frowns and soothe them.
She marveled at the peace that's infused in the most unexpected moments.
She began reading.
You and I might be forced to think that she was oblivious to the silence around her, but we might think, or we may think, or it may not be so.
Her loneliness in the dead of the night surprised her, and made her weirdly content.
And suddenly, almost notoriously, the water droplets began to spur her. They came, almost abruptly, like perhaps, by accident. She panicked, and her arms closed around her book.
What followed was an awkward moment, wherein she couldn't decide if closing the window was a better option to moving.
And then, as abruptly as before, she calmed down and smiled.
She sat where she did, did not rush to close the window, and let the rain drops replenish her troubled frowns and soothe them.
She marveled at the peace that's infused in the most unexpected moments.
1 comment:
Novels do that to us, yes they do. Maybe that is why they are called 'Novel' afterall.
Nice read.
Cheers,
Blasphemous Aesthete
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