Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Maybe because hate is just love wrapped up in barbed wire. Or maybe for us, love is just hate coated in glitter.
In any case, I try to focus.
I try to take in what’s in front of me because I may not get the chance after tonight. So I soak in every little detail of his hotel room. Which I have to say, at the first glance, is not all that interesting. It’s a generic hotel room with a gray carpet and the bare essentials someone might need to survive: a couple of armchairs by the window that overlooks the snowy city, a chest of drawers, a closet, and a little hallway that breaks off from beside the closet where I assume the bathroom may be and the room’s door.
Everything is neat and free of mess.
Very Stellan, I’d say.
Cold, smooth, and untouched.
But then there’s his bed.
It’s the only thing in this room that holds any life in it. The sheets are rumpled; the pillows are strewn about. The gray blanket is untucked and lies in a heap at the foot of the bed. In fact, it’s not even lying there; it’s dangling half off the bed. As striking as it is, the state of his bed, it’s not the most striking thing, though.
That title goes to all the books that are scattered around on the bed.
I run my eyes all over them, trying to take in as much as I can at the first glance. Some are thick. Some are thin. Some are easy to see because they’ve landed on top after some kind of explosion went off. Some are hidden under the debris of other books. Some are hardbacks. Some are paperback. Some have their corners folded. Some are in pristine condition.
But all of them belong to him.
All of them seem touched and read and probably loved by him.
Swallowing, I go, “Do you…”
He turns the phone to bring his face into focus. It appears tighter than before. The lines sharp and the features honed, dark eyes careful. As if he hates giving me a peek into his extremely private world, but he’s doing it nonetheless.
Because I want to see it.
Then, he asks, “Do I what?”
“Always travel with these many books?”
He watches me for a few moments, keeping silent before replying, “Yeah.”
“Were you…” I ask, watching him back, “looking for something to read? Is that why they’re all scattered around like that?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you find something?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to read it?”
He slowly shakes his head. “No.”
My heart squeezes. “Because you can’t focus?”
“No.”
“Because of me?”
“Yes.”
My heart squeezes harder. My belly swirls.
I feel things running up and down my spine.
Then, whispering, “I’m sorry.”
He exhales a short breath before rasping, “No, you’re not.”
This time, I shake my head slowly. “No, I’m not.”
My unabashed honesty makes his lips twitch.
“Tell me your favorite book,” I ask him then because I’m not letting him off the hook so easily.
He shoots me a look.
And I raise my eyebrows in response. “Look, we can either argue about it and waste time, or you could just give up and do as I say so we can move on.”
He stares at me for another four seconds before sighing and then leaning forward, he reaches for something. He holds up a book he must have gotten from the scattered pile on his bed. It’s one of the thicker paperback books and has the left-hand side corner of the cover folded. I see the yellow pages and the small black lettering peeking through as I read the title.
“The Adventures of Rune,” I read out loud before looking up at him. “What’s it about?”
His jaw moves back and forth as if he doesn’t want to say. “Adventures of a man called Rune.”
“Ha-ha. Tell me.”
He moves his jaw back and forth again, and he keeps doing it for some time. Before he gives up one more time and begins to tell me the story. It’s about a group of survivors who are trying to make it on a distant planet after earth has been destroyed. There are strange animals on it. There are hostiles on it. It has a purple moon and three suns and a bunch of other stuff that I don’t really get.
And if I’m being honest, I drift off after a while.
Because A: I didn’t think it would take a while for him to tell me the story. And B: I have other things to focus on. Like how amazing he looks right now. How his tanned skin simply shines. How his eyes glitter. There’s a slight tilt to his rose lips as if he’s on the verge of a slight smile. How he’s talking with his hands.
I mean, when has he ever talked with his hands?
He’s moved them twice now. Twice. While trying to explain about this acid rain that happens during the full purple moon and how it kills people.