Work Text:
Every morning was the same routine. You would get out of bed and complete the necessities before presenting yourself in public, then you would take your laptop, phone, and charger to a café down the street. You ordered the same iced coffee, sat at the same booth, watched the same movie, and sketched the same designs. Every. Single. Day. You never minded the repetition – in fact, change seemed to be your worst enemy. You had always hated alterations, for it appeared bad things always happened once they finished settling in. But, when a man wove his way into your custom, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel that familiar discomfort. It’s not like he ever interacted with you, anyway. He would walk by the wide, front windows with his dog – a golden retriever – struggling to walk alongside them without stopping to coo and scratch behind their ears. You never knew why it interested you so much to watch him for those split seconds he strolled on by the entrance, but felt embarrassed when he would look inside the little shop, sometimes locking eyes with you. You would hold his gaze for only a few brief moments until you returned to your movie, each time finding yourself listening to the beginning of “Music of the Night”.
You weren’t a classical music fanatic, and old films never really appealed to you, yet “Phantom of the Opera” always had this… this effect. You had never experienced anything like it previously, and now that you had the opportunity to, you couldn’t get enough. It was undeniably interesting, with an uncanny amount of new things to find when re-watched, over and over again. It was borderline obsessive how you so dearly held on to a movie… a movie! And only because of the emotional impact it had on you. You never told anyone of this, fearing they might think you were crazy.
Under no circumstances would you think of admitting what you felt towards a simple motion picture, until that feeling directed towards the man outside the window. It was hard to explain at first, but he piqued your curiosity. And each day, you would move up a booth, closer and closer to the glass until you were afraid to go any further, worrying he would notice your attentiveness and feel daunted by it; thus, furthering his strides to the other side of the street. On the days he seemed completely zoned out, you would quickly survey one of his features, then draw it from memory into your notepad that actually lacked real notes. Soon enough, he was another 2D, graphite model trapped in your attire illustrations.
Yet, only so much could be done for your fear of change, and you found yourself terrified when one day he strode by the café with his usual companion missing. The disappearance of man’s best friend merely irked you, but as he turned and stepped into your atmosphere, bells on the door jingling, you pressed yourself against the brick wall then busied yourself with the movie and your sketchbook. You hurriedly flipped to an empty page and began scratching a pencil against the paper to give the impression that you were truly doing something productive, teeth grinding together as your jaw tightened nervously. Your heart had dropped and there was an uncomfortable ping in your gut as your trembling fingers drew unsteady, bold lines. But he looked at you, and it was in the way you looked at that movie.
You were beginning to like change.