Write about a place you are perferctly content. Why is it special to you.

Ninety-nine days before.
“Triple shot vanilla macchiato for Michael,” called the barista.
I turned the pages so quick it seemed that they burned to touch, similar to the way people unwrap baked potatoes from their foil after they come out of the oven.
Fifty-two days before.
It seemed that those forty-two days had passed by slower on paper than forty-two days passed in real life. What was going to happen in just fifty-two short days? My eyes continued to scan the pages of Looking for Alaska as my mind raced with the possibility of what could happen when time ran out for the beloved characters that felt so real, the borders between reality and the literary world John Green had created for me had dissolved. Pudge, the Colonel, Alaska… I felt as if I could look up from the pages to see the faces of my familiar friends.
Eight days before.
I continued to read on, and those last pages seemed to drag on for what felt like hours. I read the words Green had written: The day after. I cringed as I discovered what the event this book had been structured upon was. The main character, Alaska, who had transformed into someone who seemed so real to me, was killed in a car accident. I calmed myself down: It is just a book. Alaska is not a real person. There was no car accident.
And so I read. The rest of the book passed easier. I read as each character came to terms with their friend’s death, and eventually, I did too. No happily ever after. Alaska didn’t come back and confess that it had all just been a prank. The other characters received their closure, and I finally shut the book and put it down.
“What was it this time?” The bookstore and coffeehouse employee who I had become friends with, and often shared my literary-provoked emotions with, was just getting off his shift as he sat down across from me at the table. I began to share with him everything I had read and felt throughout those pages. We discussed the book as I sipped my white chocolate mocha; one of those drinks could always help me calm down when what I had just read still had a hold of my emotions.
This had become a tradition for me. Every time I was feeling panicked about an exam, a concert coming up, or any other big event(not sure how to word this), I would set aside a couple hours to drive to the local Barnes & Noble, read a book that had been collecting dust because I was saving it for a moment like this, and escape from the stress for a couple hundred pages. The familiar smell of espresso beans and ink on paper, combined with the just-loud-enough-to-understand, just-quiet-enough-for-focusing music, provoked a situation so comfortable that I made a mental note to lock those sensations in my mind for moments when I couldn’t make it out.
I continued to discuss the novel with Fez until the music turned off and the people that were sitting in the tables around us had left, one by one. I took the last sip of my mocha, threw the cup away, and pushed in my chair before I turned to go.
“See you later, Carol.” I smiled at my friend and walked out the doors, readjusting to the life that was my own.