Page 24 of David's Love

I haven’t written anything since I met him in the coffee shop that day.

This dream of mine to become a writer might never happen.

Reality is different than what I want to put in my story, and I'm still undecided whether I want to pen an epic love story or a smutty one.

I open a new document and stare at it, my eyes vacant, my brain empty.

I’ve never experienced something so intimidating.

Eventually, my fingers rest on the keyboard, and I start typing.

A new title.

Maybe a new pen name.

‘When Stars Fall by Ella Moore.’

I'm typinga few words and quickly realize I’m writing a letter to him.

David.

‘When stars fall,we pick them up, dust them off, and put them back in the sky, their glow never lost, their stories never forgotten.

When they tumbleto the ground, our souls dip into the shadow of the crescent moon, like children playing hide and seek, unwilling to come back to light.

When stars fall,we contemplate our end, our fate, our broken hearts, the one-way road, the inky black sky, and above all, the hovering bad omens.

When stars fallwe feel empty, useless, pointless.

We lose direction, our mind, our dreams, our elusive future.

Without them, our love can no longer live. It gets old and vanishes into the thin, cold air of the early mornings.

When stars fall,we get buried in tombs of sadness, self-pity, and regret.

And we begin to die,alone and frightened, not knowing that those very stars will rise and wait and smile on us, highlighting the road that in the end will take us to each other.’

A lump formsin my throat, the tension in my jaw becoming unbearable as I stare at the few paragraphs written in a stream of consciousness.

Reality pinches me hard, and I slap the laptop closed before falling back into my pillow.

‘Waxing poetic now,’the voice inside my head mutters, eyeglasses on, a piercing stare streaming from above their tortoise rim.

‘Shut up,’I retort, even more annoyed.

Clearly, I’m not good at this.

‘I heard that,’she murmurs.

‘That’s your fucking job,’I toss at her.

She laughs.

‘That’s not funny,’I reply in my head.

‘Your writing is good, just not in step with what’s going on.’

‘What is going on?’

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