In the camp everything was shared to survive. Arthur was the most dedicated to that, but there was one thing that was private of Arthur: his journal.

Sometimes, nights like that, he would sit on one of the pouches around the bonfire and he would write. No one knew what he was doing in that diary, or why that was so special that he could carry it with him at all times.

"You look like a Romance writer every time I see you writing in that journal." You couldn’t help but smile fondly when you saw him so focused on writing. His brow was furrowed.

A small smile curved Arthur’s lips. He laughed with that hoarse voice of his and shook his head.

"I’m a real redneck." He confessed. "I’m dumb as a rock, I’m not good at writing. That’s why I draw."

That clue about what he was doing in his diary surprised you. A man as rough as Arthur, drawing, was hard to imagine.

"Do you draw?"

"Sometimes words are not enough to describe." He turned the diary over so you could see his last drawing. Lilies perfectly drawn, with their details and everything. "You only need love in the outline of the drawings. And a lot of imagination."