26 letters

“My life,” said Harry moving closer to Draco, “is just a 25 letter combination.”

“Potter, you do release that there are 26 letters in the alphabet.”

Harry ran his hands through his hair, taking another step forward, looking up at Draco.

“I know, but all that’s missing in my life is you.”

Chrysalism

/noun/ the peace of being indoors during a thunderstorm

Summary: Bookstores have always lured you in with the promise of the quiet, the serene, and, most recently, him.
Pairing: Jimin | Reader
Genre: Fluff
Word Count: 2,644
Author’s Note: This story was on one of my old Tumblr writing accounts that I just deleted, but it was one of my favorite stories and didn’t want it to collect dust in my drive.

.

You’ve always had an endless fascination with books and novels of various different shapes, sizes, and lengths. The way someone could paint an entirely different world with the mixture of just 26 letters, whisk the mind away from reality, stir emotions inside someone—emotions of laughter or sadness or one of complete contentment. The influence a simple novel could have on a person’s viewpoint has always fascinated you.

During your younger years, you would find yourself trekking to the nearest bookstore, if only to simply run your fingers along the spines of all the latest releases. You would open a random novel, just to skim the first sentence, allowing the words of a complete stranger to fill you with familiarity.

Not much has changed in the years following your childhood. Something about corner bookstores have always lured you with the promise of peace and quiet, an escape from the harsh reality you occupied yourself with. You constantly looked forward to the days you could run away and hide within the shelves of the shop, no matter rain or shine, sleet or snow, 30 pages of homework to get done during the night, you always made an effort to visit at least once or twice a week as soon as you entered college.

Today is no exception to the rule. With midterms rapidly approaching, you’re already drowning in papers, projects, and upcoming tests, the stress practically eating you alive. But still, instead of returning to your apartment, you find yourself turning down the familiar sidewalk in the opposite direction. The rain overhead is steadily pouring down today, serving as little warning bells that perhaps making the trip to the bookstore might not be the best option.

Judging from the gray clouds, it’s clear that the weather has other plans for the remainder of the day—the lightning that suddenly shoots across the sky is a clear indication of that—but you find yourself not minding much. The heels of your boots clash gently against the sidewalk, your hair curling slightly as the water comes in contact with it, but all those worries and annoyances dissipate off your skin like steam as the familiar shop comes into view. With the lights on inside, the place looks like a beacon of hope, allowing the smile to spread itself across your face as you quicken your pace to shoulder open the door.

The bell rings overhead as you gently shut the door close, running your hand through your hair quickly to rid some of the water trapped in your locks. After exchanging a smile with the familiar cashier at the counter, you make your way deeper in the store. Like usual, there isn’t anything in particular you’re seeking, but just being surrounded by text, aisles and aisles of hardcovers and paperbacks fills you with comfort.

You’re just starting the turn into contemporary novels, when one particular black, hardcover spine catches your attention, causing you to stop dead in your tracks, eyes widening with recognition as you distinctly remember this particular novel being one of the very few you’ve wanted in your own personal collection of books: John Green’s Looking For Alaska.

Your lips curl up into a smile, momentarily unfazed by the fact that the book had been placed on the highest shelf, towering a few inches above you, even as you stand on your tippy toes, even as your fingers barely manage to graze the book you want. It takes five times before you plant both feet firmly back on the ground with a gentle huff, considering the next movement to grab the book.

You’re just about to consider getting a running start between the two shelves, before a slightly amused voice cuts in through your concentration: “Need some help?”

Keep reading

I am a writer
I am eloquent and articulate
There are words that could describe you
Phrases and analogies made just for you
But I cannot put you on paper
You are too wild to contain in a page
You’d break through anything as solid as a definition
You’re too complex to belong to just one language
Too fascinating to be something already known
With all that being said
Yes there are ways to describe you
But I won’t.
—  26 letters by c.r.

26 letters, a million combinations


I’ll put all the words down
26 letters, a million combinations.


I’ll write when I feel
I’ll write while I shiver
I’ll write when it hurts
I’ll write when it kills me to
I’ll write when I’m calm
I’ll write after it’s over


I’ll put all the words down
26 letters, a million combinations


The truth
The confessions
The hypocrisy
The lies
The pain
The blood
The scars
The tears
The begging
The pleading
The longing
The rejection


I’ll put all the words down
26 letters, a million combinations


The thoughts
The screams
The dreams
The void
The cuts
The anxiety
The stance
The end


I’ll put all the words down
26 letters, a million combinations


The long nights
The fantasies
The hate
The resentment
The fatigue
The failure
The fury
The darkness
The recovery
The relapse
The hopelessness


I’ll put all the words down
26 letters, a million combinations


And it still won’t be enough.

I’ve been trying to think of
what to say to you.

How exactly I can string together these 26
letters in a way that captures your essence.

But 26 letters can only go so far.

Maybe if I string together a hundred
sunrises and sunsets, filled with the
broken bleeding hearts of teenagers
and the deep dark bruises on their minds,
if I could sew stardust into the empty spaces
of these sentences, if I could
pour what remains of the universe
into an ocean, then maybe the
world will understand why
26 letters just aren’t enough.

—  Maddi Snowden, Poems He’ll Never Read (18/25)