/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
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?”