Rohan didn't need much space. He didn't even want to go into the library in the first place. He hated libraries, the heavy silence that lingered over them like a cloud of anxiety and depression, the rows of books whose readership had died a long time ago. They were archaic and stupid. The only thing he liked about them was the smell, the fresh wooden novelty they exuded, but he'd get an air freshener before setting foot in one. He hated libraries. They were a place where people went when they were forced to continue school.
Nevertheless, he found himself walking into one under the pressure of an exam and the lack of knowledge that he carried with it. It wasn't that the teacher didn't give them the knowledge. Or, rather, he wasn't entirely sure, due to the bouts of sleep that shrouded his memory. He didn't learn a thing in that class. He ambled glumly over to the textbook shelve, giving a dry smile to the librarian who did not return the look, and began running his fingers over the half-beaten spines. He left a spotless streak along them as his hand collected the dust, the archaic books practically creaking with age when he touched them. Rohan frowned. He upturned the collar of his North Face and glanced to the door, the white light outside, fighting instincts to walk away. That would not help him. He had to study a little.
Where the green-haired figure took up a whole table, Rohan's space was a chair in the corner, where he plopped down and thumbed absentmindedly through a textbook he wasn't sure was relevant to his class. He didn't know what he was doing. It was a desperate and futile attempt for the raven-haired boy, but if he gave the book an hour he could at least say he tried. He could wag his finger at his professor and proclaim he was doing his best.
Why was it all so important? His father didn't even finish high school and made millions of pounds.
