She was a writer but never was her lover.
They just came back home after a great movie and a long walk in the park.
“I’ll get the dinner ready,” she said, and he went straight to the couch to rest but he was still soaked in sweat from their walk.
“Love, do I have any shirt left here? I’m kind of dripping wet from that walk,” he asked her.
“Yes, it’s up in my room. In my cabinet,” she shouted back from the kitchen.
He went to her room and found his black V-neck shirt in the cabinet, on the very top of her clothes. After changing he noticed the journal he gave her as an anniversary gift because he knows how much she likes to write. She writes a lot. She writes about anything, and writes anywhere. She writes about her thoughts, no matter how out of this world they could get. She writes about her feelings. She writes when she’s happy; when she’s lonely; when she’s horny; when she misses him; when she thinks about him; when she feels angry; when she’s inspired; and when she doesn’t feeling anything at all — just words, rhyming random but beautiful words. She was passionate about writing. Her writings are the doors to her heart; to her soul.
However, on that journal she decided to write anything about him and only him because it was a gift from him. Everything she thinks and feels about him was in there. Every little thing about him, and what he does is so special for her. And everything was written in there.
He scanned the pages and read some lines. She caught him reading the journal. She was not mad nor angry. Instead, she felt so much joy and excitement that finally, he’ll get to know what he really means to her.
She smiled and asked, “So, what do you think?”
“About what you’ve read in that journal.”
“I think’s it’s okay.”
And her heart stopped. Okay? Just… okay?
“You really write a lot. That’s good. Is dinner ready?”
She was not moving nor speaking. She just looked at him in shock. Her heart was shattered. Finally she found her voice.
“What else do you think?”
“What do you mean? I said it’s okay.”
“What, what’s wrong?” he said.
“You don’t listen to what I write…”