When It Rains

Chapter 1

I aggressively tapped on my keyboard as I was trying to catch up a little note on the book I was currently reading. The thought that I probably wouldn't able to get all this information bugs me quite a little, but it's better to have something to keep me occupied and productive at the same time than doing nothing. I sound pretty pathetic that I have visualized myself where I came to the point that I have to join this small meeting just to help each other's out from our writer's block--then it actually happened. It is happening now.

You know that feeling that it made you feel like you're some sort of child prodigy, having the feeling like you can conquer every difficulties that you face but then in the end of the day you realized you're just like everyone else.

"You know, when some people said that maybe Elizabeth Bennet was just a little off the hook after refusing Mr. Darcy's proposal, I kinda think they were right."

"Well it's just an opinion and it's valid for some reasons, I think." I replied as I continue tapping on my keyboard.

"Will you excuse me? I think I need to use the bathroom." I added and he replied with a nod.

I shoved down all my books, notebooks and including my laptop in my backpack and took my cold coffee with me heading to the bathroom. And then just like everyone else you may think I live my life like most young people do. Like those teenagers who got inspired by every aesthetic they find on Pinterest and make it a lifestyle or a personality, but no it's different for me or maybe I am one of them too but who cares?

Well, I live my life to write; sucks to hear it from me that it's been months now since I stopped writing after a bad break up. You know that feeling when you hear a musician wrote something about their ex-lover on how much they're having a hard time moving forward? Or how much you understand each lyric about regrets and disappointments? Well, you know between a musician and a writer shares one thing in significance and that is to tell stories.

The difference is that I never write out of spite. No matter how many chapters of heartbreak and hook-ups I could write, I still believe it to be wholly unproductive. I feel like I give a little piece of me every bit of writing to the stories I wanted to tell but ended up finding nothing or lost.

Luckily for those musicians and other writers who still be able to go on after that, because I can't. I'm still in the same place. Trust me. I tried everything I could just to get back to writing. I wouldn't be here in this small group of people just to scratch out every bits of information to fill into this void.

Although I knew many fine publishers through connections, so it wasn't long before I was an official published author with a new network of literate friends. My novel was a quick success thanks to my advertising team. They worked their ass to the bone to gain a cult following for me like from posters were on bus-stops, library walls, retirement home notice boards, and many more.

I made myself slow my walk as my heart thumped and my throat constricted from all the caffeine intake, dropping back to the rear of the group stealthily enough that none can see me and the rest of the other people wouldn't notice. I am an expert at this, the ninja exit.

I felt like I was having a heart attack just trying not to get myself noticed. It was like trying to go to the bathroom at 3am without making any noise. I walked a few miles before pulling my phone out from my pocket and plug my earphones just to help me stay calm and to remind myself that I haven't done anything wrong aside from skipping a meeting before my anxiety kicks in.

I let out a sigh while waiting for the next bus to stop.

The wind softly brushed my hair that makes me covers my face to protect my eyes from dust. When I look up to the sky to check the weather, the sky seems slowly turning to grey; looks like it was about to rain.

The weather forecast never mentioned that it will rain today. So basically I didn't bring my umbrella because I am that too dependent on the internet. But what do they say? Internet makes life easier.

I sat at the window side of the bus just enough to see the view and lean my head to the bus window. Not just about ten minutes the bus stop, a lot of people got off and a lot of people got in and half of them are still in line.

"They ended up walking until they hit some coffee shop called Drew's Coffee, all crowded sidewalks and biting air, probably not today since it was raining, the smell of coffee and the roasting meat altogether, like a mysterious smoke coming up out of every chimneys just make this rainy day feel a bit warmer."

I could tell the guy was talking about me, and he was talking about the two people I stared at in line, holding two same books, while waiting for the other passengers to get it.

I turned and face him.

He has quite long lashes and a medium wavy length hair, wearing a wool trench coat and not soaked. I guess he has his umbrella with him. Quite prepared, could be a perfectionist or the type of "making sure", should I say paranoid? No, I'm not here to diagnose him. He was holding quite materials, I can tell because his sling brown leather bag quite packed. However, I don't get why he was holding his notebook with him instead of forcing it to push down to his enormous leather bag. Maybe it's for aesthetic or some kind of fashion thing just to make his look a bit extra.

An artist? Maybe.

A lawyer? Could be.

A writer? Like me? Hope so.

He probably noticed I was observing him and it's time to break the silence.

"I'm sorry?" I asked, pretending that I didn't know what he meant.