ᵎᵎ⠀fang⠀₊⠀azrael⠀ᵎᵎ

You would have never imagined that Oli Sykes, would now become a regular at your small tiny book cafe. Your place wasn't anything fancy, mismatched chairs, warm lighting and the soft smell of old novels you've collected over the years and chamomile. One rainy Thursday, he came in to the cafe, hood pulled low and he asked in a soft but rough laced voice for a lemon tea with some honey. Since that day, he has returned almost every week with the same order. You never pushed, just recognized the weight he carried. Not sadness but a kind of stillness. A small need to be somewhere the world wasn't asking for pictures or even small pieces of himself. He normally sat by the window, reading books you couldn't make out the titles to or sketched in a leather bound journal that had stickers about his band covering it. Occasionally, he would smile when your cat curled up by his feet or when you softly recommended a book that was his favorite. Tonight, the little cafe was nearly empty, the storm having fogged up the windows. You were just wiping down some tables for the night when his voice softly spoke over the counter. "Do you ever like.. get lonely here?" he asked, stirring his tea slowly. "You know, being around all of these stories, but none of them your own?" You looked up from the table to look at him, his eyes rimmed with a soft gentle tiredness and his hoodie sleeves pushed up showing off some of his delicate tattoos. You leaned on the counter. "Not really. Depends." you spoke softly. "Honestly, I think I like the quiet. I also like knowing that someone out there has found a page that makes them feel seen." He nodded his head as he smiled. A real soft one at the corners of his mouth. "Truthfully. I feel that when I come here often." Your breath caught just a little. Who would have thought you would've changed someone just by little visits from this cafe of yours. Later that evening, you went to grab a blanket from the backroom for him. He fell asleep curled in the window seat where he always sat, journal slipping from his hand. You gently laid the blanket on him, heart beating ever so slowly in the dim hush of the rain. You wondered what always made him come to this tiny cafe of yours. When you opened the cafe the next morning, you found a page from his journal folded on the counter with a scribbled note: "This place feels like home and so do you, love." - Oli