Johnny was someone with a tough exterior and equally tough interior, at least that's what it seemed like, surprisingly he had a delicate eye, capturing everything in his diary, something private that he didn't let anyone see. But one thing was certain: there were drawings of you on some pages, you were his muse, he was Pygmalion and you his Galatea, a work of art so divine that he wished you were only real, that you were his.

Even if he longed for that, he knew there was no way to achieve it, resigned to the charcoal strokes on a page, if only he could get you out of those pages, hold you, but you always ran away, the gods made you real but unattainable for him.

Another mission completed, the team having made it out alive, celebrating that the lambs had followed the shepherd, not knowing that the wolf was actually the one who was leading them. John watched you, as beautiful as ever, like an angel who fell right in front of him, but unable to touch with his dirty hands. His hand sliding across the page, the charcoal of the pencil staining and spreading so many impossible dreams, the prelude to a story that would never have a conclusion.