James was an author. Not officially, but, in most of his free time, he was writing or thinking of his next bestseller. He had no favorite genre in particular, but as long as he could have fun with it, he would write it. It was a little kid in a toy shop; he plays with one until he gets bored, then he moves on to the next one. James's mindset was like this. If there's anything he wanted to wrote, he would write it until he wanted to. Once writing changed from 'want to' to 'have to', he would give up and start over.

James also loved to research. For some reason, he loved how seemingly inconnected facts can be related by a single, even maybe preposterous, thread. It was fun, being able to connect things as different as apples and oranges, because all he had to say was that they were both fruit.

James liked information. It wasn't bothersome. It didn't care what he was like. It was objective, never biased in its factual opinions. Information accepted him for who he was, not for who he wanted to be. In the eyes of information, he was perfectly fine.

James was a mostly analyctic and logical person. He always understood the world as straightforward, with a path you're supposed to take to reach the end. The end that was either good, bad, or in between was everyone's goal. And, he always understood that he could get out of almost any sticky situation using common sense and knowledge of your surroundings. Being able to logically deduce the next best choice ahead was key to reaching the end. Once he got far enough, he could see the end and make his way to the ultimate end. His goal in life was an ideal ending in his eyes. Writing was just another way to try out his hypothetical ideals. It was just like free extras or benefits if someone liked his story and began to use its ideal as their own. James didn't mind too much. As long as he got credit that he deserved, he was fine.

After all, no matter how complex the situation, the truth, no matter how horrible, is always the best path to the end. James knew this well, and all he really wanted was to find the real truth. And, he sought the truth so much, he wrote only fiction to counterbalance his hunt for the truth. Because, the truth is a scary thing. James knew that the truth was unpleasant. That's why people always try to hide it.

James usually used his reasoning skills to write, but, sometimes, he would apply it to other places. He has frequently found lost pets or items, usually based on a testimony. He was very good at arguments, using his deductive powers to corner testimonies and shut down arguments with contradictions. He could easily be a lawyer or detective, and take on the evil and the wicked that threatened the safety of others.

But, he was an author. A man of writing the action, not being the action.

And, in the library that James usually ventured, sat another interesting character, who was a young reader at the age of sixteen (just about seven months ahead of James, who was born in August), trying to listen to everyone. A reader of many genres, she loved how she could listen to whatever they would say in their own voice.

The girl sat on the opposite side and end of the smae table that James usually habitated, not really coming in contact with him. They hardly knew each other, in fact. But, the quiet story reader, five-four with black, straight, shoulder-length hair and glasses, and the fearless story writer, were the main two characters of a contradicting, star-crossed love chronicle.

"You know, books are unneeded. They are just there, taking up space. It would be easier to digitalize everything." James said. The girl froze in mid-sentence from James's perspective. He couldn't see her directly, but he could practically tell by logical deduction what her reaction was. He had seen her in the library every time he came, and, by all the books he had checked out, she was seen with the same copy not less than a week later. By reasonable connection from observations, he concluded she had a fondness towards reading. He knew that what he said would hit a nerve in her. So, he decided to test his theory, keeping an eye on her from the corner of his eye.

"Books aren't needed anymore." he said. He kept his head facing the books, waiting for a reaction. He saw her approaching from the corner of his eye. He saw her raise her left hand, palm open, eyes closed, ready to strike.

He then saw her swing with all her might. James smiled slightly as he used his left arm to catch her wrist.

He kept facing the books, just to see her reaction to his 'reflexes'. He kept his wrist in her hand, carefully keeping track of long she would remain before snatching it back.

"You try to slap just anyone?" James snapped, not lifting his gaze from the books just yet. The girl was frozen in fear. James turned his head quickly to reveal his face. He kept a calm and angry state, maybe when like soneone just lost their patience with you. James gave the impression that he was annoyed, seeing her reaction.

He spoke concisely, not trying to do anything special. He did it to get to the point and James wanted a straight answer. Inside, James wondered on the girl's reaction. She wasquickly beginning to turn bright red like a ripe tomato.

He could tell that the girl had no clue what to do. She was one of those bookish girls. She was one of thosd where you had to listen carefully. Wehn you do, you can hear their inner voice. He knew that they tended to be very quiet because they were always thinking to themselves. They had little, if any real, knowledge of natural and socially acceptable human interaction protocol. But, he knew, that's what makes them attractive. They're shy, giving them allure, and intelligent, giving them a smart side.

"Well?" James pressed. He could tell the girl was still weighing her options. He could see how she was willing to be rash, because she wouldn't be held to her actions. He met her gaze, blue azure eyes that gavd him a cool feeling complemented by her glasses.

"Stupidhead!" she shouted, snatching her hand away. A reaction. Mission accomplished.