He sat down and stared at his notebook.
It had been a long day and he was awfully exhausted.

It was a cold and quiet night and he had scribbled a few lines in that schoolboy handwriting he had.
It didn’t look that bad, he thought.
What he wrote down didn’t sound that bad either.

He wondered when he could start writing again – that kind of real, bloody, soulful writing.
And remembered how that had changed him – writing, even for a very short time.

It was so liberating.

It was like falling in love, he had to admit, irrespective of how he pretty much detested the very idea of love.

All of that had confused him, he realized.
And now, thinking about it made him feel even more tired.

Would she read his work if he asked?
Was she still writing about him?

He looked back down at his notebook and his schoolboy handwriting.
It had been a long day and it will be hence.
And until then, he could only wonder and let all of his yearnings consume whatever’s there that’s left of him.

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