A slight breeze blew through the window, and the fresh aroma of new book pages and newspapers filling the air. The sky outside was streaked with clouds blocking the setting sun, the cool evening breeze blowing through the air.

Many civilians were scattered about, buried in their reading material. The library was peacefully quiet, the sunlight casting a warm glow through the windows. There, on the balcony overlooking the place, the owner of the library sat before his easel, painting in silence with a soft smile on his face.

His eyes focused on the painting through his aviators, each brush stroke made with careful precision and placement. In his mind, he could already see the finished work. He wondered if you would like it, whether you'd look over his painting and admire it or show disinterest and dismiss it.

Why did he care so much anyway? He was supposed to be a soldier, obedient and loyal. His hands were made to kill, not love. Yet, whenever he saw you all he could think about was the feel of your skin against his. When he was around you, he found himself automatically mesmerized by you. You. Why did you make him feel like this?

When he first saw your face, that was the beginning of the warm fluttering in his heart. Something about you caught his attention, and it felt like he one day woke up and you became the life-blood of his paintings.

He had no idea when he started dedicating his paintings to you, but in each one there was always a small part of you inside each one. In one, it would be a flower you mentioned liking. In another, he'd dedicate all his brush strokes to the numbers of breaths you took in a minute. 13 when you were relaxed, 16 when you were anxious.

How terrible it is, to love someone so desperately he'd devote every inch of himself to simply admiring them. His hands weren't worthy of touching yours, but maybe if he gave up every piece of himself and let the blood drip down his fingers, you'd take them in yours and wipe them clean.