The scratch of pen against paper echoes throughout the room, bouncing off of the thin walls. Ink stains his hands, smudges on his cheek, his forehead; he cares not, for he is in his moment. His serenity, his instant of complete and utter tranquility. His fingers hold the pen gingerly, pressing against the paper, looping letters and words and thoughts into one whole piece, bringing together the conscious and subconscious, the aware and unaware.

The sound of a loud, distinct thud awakens him from his trance, breaking his steady rhythm of thinking and writing. He looks up at the ceiling, silently cursing the damned flimsy walls that divide his room from the others. Why hadn’t he gone with the top floor, again? Right, because it was too expensive. He gives the ceiling one last death stare before glancing back down at his notebook, willing for the feeling to overtake him again, to allow him to once again enter his hypnotic-like state of self-expression. It is, however, too late. The chain has been cut; the moment of brilliance is over, gone with the cruel realization of the mundane state of his current situation. Sighing deeply, he shuts the journal, tossing it inside of his bag, slung haphazardly over the chair. 

Blaine walks over to the small bed, sitting on it carefully, cautious not to make too much of a noise. He brings a hand behind his neck, rubbing the spot tiredly; he had been writing for close to three hours straight, and the angle of his head leaning down had really began to let itself become known. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to write. God, the exact opposite was true; it was just that the paper had given him an especially interesting, complicated story to write about, and he really wanted to do it justice; wanted to write and write well, even though barely anyone read the paper, save the elderly and the hobos who used it for shelter. 

 The thought alone made him shudder, and he quickly got up from the bed, walking over to the small sink on the wall. Pouring some water into the machine, he threw the coffee grinds into the coffee maker and turned it on, waiting for the familiar whirring sound to begin, his mind almost at once put at ease. Call him weird, but there was just something about a hot, steaming cup of coffee on a stressful afternoon that warmed his being, his very soul. Leaning against the small counter, he inhales deeply, taking in the aroma of the rich, earthy java, clearing his senses, taking him to another place all together. When he hears a click, he turns around, grabbing the pitcher and pouring himself a cup. He takes it the same everyday: black. No sugar, no creamer, and, god forbid, no artificial flavoring. Black; black was strong, solid. It was constant, something that woke him up and kept him grounded. 

Carrying the cup over to his small writing desk, he sat down, reaching over to the small window just above it. He pushed the blinds open, letting the late afternoon sunlight pour into the little room, casting a warm, early autumn glow. This was his favorite time of the day. The time where we could just sit and sip from his coffee and enjoy life; the time when he could unwind, forget about when he has to pay the electricity bill or deadlines or anything else. He brings the cup to his lips, taking a long, gratifying drink, closing his eyes while he does so. Blaine does this each and every single day. It’s become so routine, so embedded in his daily life, that he can’t function without it. There’s something else that draws him in, too; something that lures him to this spot every day at the same exact time. He glances out the window quickly, making sure no one can see him. When he sees the proverbial blur of red, his heart leaps. He quickly leans over the chair, snatching the small, leather-bound journal from under his pillow. Cracking it open to a new page, he settles into his chair, making sure he is positioned just behind the window. The scent of roses wafts up from the pages; he had pressed one of the flowers in between the pages the other day. He smiles, associating the scent with happy thoughts. He pulls out his special pen and begins to write. 

Dear X, 

                I picked out a rose for you yesterday from the neighbor’s garden. It’s really beautiful; it’s got sprinkles of white and pink on it. Sometimes I like to imagine that you smell like it. Beautiful. Subtle. Soft. The color matches your cheeks on a cold day, or when you get really worked up over an order. 

I wish I could talk to you. I wish I could do more than just stare at you from my window, steal fleeting glances at you from behind these walls. But I’m scared. I don’t know if you’ll even like me, even see me as an equal. 

You looked happy today. I wonder why? Maybe a customer left you a big tip…maybe you got some good news. Who knows. 

I don’t really have much to say today. Work is exhausting. My parents haven’t called in two weeks. Wait, scratch that. That’s a good thing. 

You look…breathtaking today. The way your hair falls over your eyes, the way you push it away. The blue in your shirt brings out your eyes; I can see it all the way from over here. I wonder if you know how beautiful you really are? How heart-achingly captivating your movements are; languid, elegant. 

Goodnight. 

                                                                                     -Nameless

Blaine smiles, sighing happily to himself. Nothing made him happier, or sadder, than writing to X. 

X worked across the street at the cozy, quaint café. When he had first moved to the apartment, he had disregarded it completely; he saw no reason in paying for overpriced coffee when he could make it perfectly well in the comfort of his home. That all changed, however, when he happened to be, rather unusually so, staring out his window one evening. Short on inspiration, he had looked to the outside world for some type of aide to his writer’s block. Focusing his attentions on the obscure building across the way, his stomach dropped. 

There, before his eyes, stood the most exquisite, mind-numbingly striking person he had ever seen in his life. Dressed in a plain back button up sweater, dark skinny jeans, and a cherry red apron, the boy had caught his attention immediately. The sun glinted off of his golden brown hair, giving him and almost angel like glow. His skin was pale and creamy, iridescent, even. His body was long and lean, with legs that seemingly stretched out for miles. His face…well, his face was another work of art in itself. He was not conventionally handsome. On the contrary, his beauty leaned towards elegant and graceful. His eyes were a striking shade of blue, crisp and bold, standing out against his ivory skin. His nose sloped perfectly downward, curving ever so adorably at the end. His lips were full and pink, stretching widely against his pearly white teeth when he smiled. 

He was perfect. 

He also had absolutely no idea who Blaine even was. 

Blaine rarely ventured outside of the house, save going to work or grocery shopping. There was nothing about the outside world that really appealed to him. He had promised himself that until his career jumpstarted, until his writing really became well known, he would avoid relationships and friendships of all kinds. They were distractions. 

He would definitely have made an exception for X. If he knew who he was. If Blaine could even muster up the courage to speak to him. Which would, inevitably, never ever happen in a thousand years. 

Gently closing the cover of the journal, he gets up from his chair, walking over to his bed. He had been writing for so long, had become so lost in his own thoughts and memories, that time had escaped his conscious being. The sun had long set, the night sky now crisply stretching over the distance, the crescent moon glimmering into his bedroom. Sighing dreamily, he toes off his socks, peeling off his pants in the process. He crawls into bed, scooping the thin sheets up around him and wrapping himself in them. Rolling over to his side, he picks up his pillow, sliding the journal underneath. This, too, is part of his ritual. It may sound stupid, but he has this sort of…superstition. That if he places the journal under his pillow every night, rests it beneath his head, he’d dreams sweet, happy dreams. Of a more fulfilling life; of love, of beauty. 

Of X.