Stains

if

A restricted area.

That's where I first saw you.

At first, I thought you were just some "rebel" teenager that was stealing something to feel cool or to prove to herself that she can take care of herself.

But no. You were doing something that was a really unexpected thing to do in a storage room of an art museum.

You were painting.

You were painting in an art meseum.

You are weird. My body didn't seem to care, though, as I started to walk-no-creep slowly to you, being quiet as I can.

You wouldn't have heard me. You wouldn't have run away. I could've just stood there for who knows how long just staring at you as you painted on some worn out sketch pad with coffee stains on its cover.

Only if it weren't for that small sack of fat covered in black and white fur with chicken toes for legs who decided to break the silence by squeaking ever so loudly at me.

And from that day on, I decided that I do not like hamsters.