the book thief.

He did it again.

Our eyes locked for a fleeting moment before he bolted, vanishing like a shadow. I sighed and bent down to pick up the scattered books—Plato, Epicurus, Ryan Holiday, Alfred Adler. Who left these here? Could it be him? But what would a boy his age understand from books like these? They're far too dense for his years. I haven't even being able to forgive Homer's The Iliad, for traumatizing me. After all these years, I've still not been able to finish one sentence of the book.

There's something really intriguing about this boy. He comes here every evening. Stares at the bookstore for a long time and runs away when he sees me. Sometimes, I find him inside, sitting on the ground and reading a book. When he notices me, he immediately drops the book and runs out of the store. I don't have a problem with him reading the books. I don't even get to say anything to him except for my screams, telling him to stop.

He loves reading, I know that for sure, considering how many times I've met him since I started working here but I guess he probably doesn't have enough money to buy any one. I loved books as a child but not books like these. Could there be anything there is to do that might help this boy? Hmm.

I have to close the store in an hour's time. Before that, let me arrange these books.

I arranged them, and I noticed that there was extra space on the shelf for one book. I couldn't find the book anywhere.

Wait…Could my reader friend have stolen it?

And which book is that?

Huh! I gasped, "The Courage to be Disliked!"

My all time favourite!

Now, what am I going to tell that brickhead of a boss? He's too cross to even hear me out! Steven, my coworker has already left. Let me check the security cameras.

I played the record for the past two hours and my suspicion was right. My shy reader friend had taken the book, that too without a freaking payment.

Now how do I deal with this boy, Hmm.

The next evening, my lovely friend didn't arrive. A week's time. No sign of him. Oh, what about two weeks? Nope, no brake light.

After one month of waiting for my dear friend so I can pass a judgement, the accused fellow showed up at the glass windows again. He looked sunburned and his hair was a mess but all that contributed all the more to his cuteness. I opened the door and approached the suspect. He was shocked and tried to abscond after I greeted him.

"Hi," I said, with a wide smile.

He turned back and looked at me as though he was measuring my facial features and wondering what position my skin tone and lipstick would be on the colour spectrum.

He replied shyly and placed his left hand back in his pockets. He looked at me again, and examined my face for more details. Now, I feel self-conscious.

I told him how I'd been noticing him and what I thought about his passion for books. I asked him if he took the book that went missing to which he confirmed and explained the consequences for stealing. I asked him to return the book to the store as soon as possible. I then invited him inside to collect a gift I'd been wanting to give him since the time he last showed up. He smiled a little as soon as he heard of his gift.

As we were going back to the bookstore, a tall man— I won't tell you if he was handsome, but since that's what you want to hear, then alright. He was. Legsome.

A tall, legsome man came from the corner of the building, panting. And he was too familiar.

"Derek?" I said, surprised, sad, joyous, angry— all at the same time but most of all happy.

"Emma." He said, looking lost. He turned to my friend. "What are you…"

Is he my friend's father? He must have married someone else. Okay. Let me stop thinking, before I start crying.

He has a child now, he's happy.
He must have married Anna. Yeah.
He doesn't care about you, just forget him.
Ugh! What's wrong with this mind?! Stop already!

"Dad." My friend said, "I found Mom."

Mom who? Me? What are you talking about?

"Let's take her home," he pleaded with sincere desire.

Derek was silent and just stared at me and I at him. The boy must be confused. Why's he calling me Mum? I can't be his mum because I can't have any children and our surrogate mother died in a car accident before his Mum sent me packing.

The child went and tugged his father's cloak and begged his father to confirm what he was saying. Derek didn't say a thing and just kept staring at me. Like father, like son.

I turned the door handle to enter the store and had had enough of the surprises I saw today but Derek rushed to hold the door handle, pressing gently on my soft fingers, which made me tingle a bit– feeling his model worthy hands on mine and tried to stop me from returning inside.

My lovely friend hugged my waist tightly and cried gently on my grey garbadine

"Emma," he started, "Can we talk? Please."

I felt a sharp pain inside as I wondered what we wanted to talk about. I took a deep breath, and looked him straight in the eye.

Image by Amy Art-Dreams from Pixabay