He smelled like a library.
And, somehow, he looked like one as well.
With his long, green and beige cardigans, the glasses that made his face look tiny, and the brown, messy hair.
It didn't help that he carried at least three books with him at all times.
Rumour had it, he didn't have stuffed animals when he was younger – but notebooks and atlases which nearly fell apart.
He could've easily been 50, maybe 60.
Moving slowly, eyes always on words, living in worlds far, far away.
Yes, if someone had told you that he had fallen out of an old fairytale, you would've believed it in an instant.

But while everyone else was making fun of his old fashioned ways, you just looked down when he came down the hallway.

Because you knew things.

Because you had looked into one of his notebooks one day, when he had forgotten it in class.

You had been greeted by smeared pencil and words that were crossed out several times, then rewritten, then crossed out again.

They all said the same thing, over three whole pages.

would anyone care?