Utterly random. What writing means to me.
I watched as he leafed through the pile of paper, an odd assortment of different- sized sheets that meant so much to me. He glanced up with a wide, toothy grin that did not quite reach his eyes,"Very nice. How long have you been writing, exactly?" Tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, I gave a small smile before answering, "5 years now."
"Mmm-hmm." he nodded, distractedly, before moving on to other topics of discussion.
He complimented me on my hair, me eyes, then told me about the vast wealth he had inherited just a few months ago, but my gaze kept travelling back to the pile of paper on the desk.
My writings. My life. Within them were a certain magic, unknown to him- the magic that saved me time and again, the magic that got me through the nights where I was afraid to sleep, afraid to wake up, the magic that helped me take a knife from my wrist and put a pen to paper. They had seen me through depression, death, love, anxiety, heart-break; they had seen me through life. The magic of words.
He had seen my eyes fixed upon the papers, and, sensing where my thoughts lay, questioned, "So, which work of yours would you say is the best?", in an obvious effort to woo me. I gazed long and hard into his eyes, before answering, "My best work? It is the work I haven't written yet."
Poor boy. He must know, he must realize, that I would never be able to romance anyone other than that magic on sheets of paper.