Creative writting

I was thrown forwards. My shoes squeaked against the floor as I readjusted myself. I looked up at him. He held the book closed on his lap, a bookmark poking out from his place. “I don’t care HOW people read, I care IF they read” He smiled with the corner of his mouth, leaning back in his seat, pleased with my answer. His hair was black and uneven, longer that the front then it was at the back. A satchel that was covered with anime characters and Japanese text rested against his leg. I was seated on the singular seat with one opposite me. It was the type of seat you sat at if you wanted to sit alone. But the train was full. The seats had been covered with an itchy blue fabric that was never the same shade as the seat next to you. A shiver ran down my spine as my neck touched the cold metal bar above the top of the seat. The windows were scratched and had become an awful yellow colour that made the train look older than it probably was. I looked down at the book. His hands covered the title. “What’s the book?” His half smile shrunk. “You know those books that are yours?” he pushed his glasses and turned to look beyond the yellow window “you know those books that are so special and rare that sharing them feels wrong?” I followed his gaze. 

It was still raining. I called it dry rain. Of cause rain isn’t dry but if you were to walk in this rain you wouldn’t get so wet. He sighed looking back at me “But I suppose I could share it with you” His fingers curled around the book as if he was still reluctant to share. He handed the book to me and rested his hands in his lap. I looked down at it. The book was red with two white silhouettes on the cover each with the same name inside of them “Will Grayson Will Grayson” I flipped the book and looked back up at him. I scanned his face. I noticed a hit of regret in his eyes that had been hidden under his hair. I handed him the book. “I’d love to read it” He paused. His eyes widened for a moment before he laughed and took out a pen. He scribbled on the inside cover and handed the book back to me. His fingers pinched the bookmark so that it slid out of the book as I took it. I looked at him. He smiled at me. It wasn’t his half smile it was his real smile.

I was thrown forwards as the train came to a screeching halt. The train was old and screeched each time it approached a station then stopped with a tremendous jolt. He stood, clutching a satchel in his hand, smiled once more and left. I listened to people closing their umbrellas and moving about the train. I placed my own satchel on his seat and opened the book. His hand writing was messy and barely readable. I studied it. I was able to decipher the numbers scrawled under the authors note. However the name above it remained a mystery to me. I reached down into my own satchel. I dug through it until I felt my phone and pulled it out. I clicked it so it would show the time. 10:27.

__________

He sat down opposite me. A book placed in his lap and a satchel at his side. “Books or kindle’s?” His mouth curved into a half smile.

I was thrown forwards. My shoes squeaked against the floor as I readjusted myself. I looked up at him. “I don’t care HOW people read, I care IF they read” He smiled, leaning back in his seat, pleased with my answer.

“What’s your name?”

“Sebastian” I answered.