Words are really easy to come by, every string of letters creating new meanings that fill up the human brain in various languages and forms, leaving them baffled to the endless possibilities of fiction they are capable of.

At least that's what life's been for him, a string of words put together under the watchful eyes of the moon, 4am scribbles turning into more than just mindless theories about the stars, a solidarity created within a world.

There was a certain calmness he craved as the scratches of pen on paper filled the room, drowning out the occasional purrs of his furry companion curled up in the corner, as he inhaled an ungodly amount of caffeine to keep him awake. There was nothing stopping him once he began writing out a tale, his body building up barriers to shun out the rest of the world, time being a non-existent essence as the hours blurred into oblivion.

Louis Wayne had only ever had the comfort of words with him, everywhere he went, a string of sentences followed, weaving themselves into his past, letting his story be written up in metaphors and riddles as he ventured on with his life.

He viewed himself as nothing more than a speck of life, allowing himself to get lost in the huge mass of humanity that surrounded him everyday, his body accustomed to his routine as it ran on autopilot, giving him the freedom to conjure up an endless terrain of thoughts about the most menial of things.

He sat in the subway, his fingers subconsciously drumming a familiar tune on his thigh as he glanced around at the different people around him, letting his mind wander into space, building up stories for them, backgrounds, wondering whether the lady infront of him was a dreamer or a realist, her expression never faltering from the book she was engrossed in, trying to decipher whether she was a believer of happy endings or was her life a constant stream of disappointments, happiness buried beneath years of trying to find herself.

The subway screeched to a stop, announcing his departure as he gave the girl one last glance as she finally met his eye, seeing a genuine spark of interest in her as she gave him a small smile, letting himself store her character in his brain, as he smirked back before letting the morning crowd sweep him away into the busy street.

He reached the tiny cozy spot on the street, using his key to open up the glass doors, instantly getting hit with the aura of morning coffee and wood, his favourite concoction of scents, humming to himself as he officially opened up the tiny cafè.

He could easily have picked the evening shift, but there was a comfort that lingered as tired customers walked in during the first hour, their voices barely whispers as they ordered their required caffeine, their eyelids half shut, giving Louis enough time to think of all the words that made them up, enervated, blasé, strenuous, each person carrying their own traits and baggage, all of them holding a novel of their past, events leading up to where they are now, under the same roof of a barely noticable coffee shop in the corner of the street.

The sunlight peered through the windows at the front, consuming the place in an orange warmth, the sun barely have just risen, giving the place a heavenly feeling, one that would be described with clichè terms of aesthetic like cozy and homey. 

People in the morning were scarce, mostly businessmen who were rushing and students with heavy books and bags beneath their eyes, the rush lasting for an hour and a half before the cafè was nearly empty, which gave Louis enough time to scribble down the tales being conjured up in his head into the notebook he always carried around with him in his satchel.

He wrote about the girl from the subway, making her the protagonist, writing about a world where she grew up with the bare minimum, rising her way to success, a place where her dreams were not just hidden in the forms of fiction, rather her actions and words as she reformed herself into her own hero.

Louis was never one for fairytales and happily-ever-after, he didn't believe in the idea of a single moment building up a happy life, rather a series of events that contained every emotion felt by man, he was a dreamer stuck within a realist, like two opposites woven together, the puzzle deformed but still holding on.

He would write about sunsets and stars but also the pain of those who never saw it, he wrote about songs and the pain behind the words, he wrote about couples and the hardships beneath their smiles, he wrote about beauty but never covered up the ugly truth behind it.

He wrote what the world needed to see, he was far from the fabrication of perfection society craved and he was content with that, with simply being ordinary.