Slice of Life

She Writes Because

Someone asked me, "What are your hobbies?"

I simply answered, "I just have a one hobby—writing."

"Writing, hm. Why?" he asked again.

I smiled before opening my mouth to utter my answer.

"I love to put my unsaid thoughts into words,
I love imagining that I am the character in every stories I wrote;
I love to write for me to feel like I'm in different worlds,
I'm in pain and the stories I made are its antidote."

I love to put my unsaid thoughts into words—as if it's the only way for me to express myself and to understand my feelings by other people.

I love imagining that I am the character in every stories I wrote—as if I'm the protagonist who has a different life and personality.

I love to write for me to feel I'm in different worlds—as if I travel the whole universe.

I'm in pain and the stories I made are its antidote—I feel like someone hurts me, and whenever I'm writing, it is as if the only way to kill every inch of that someone that's still breathing inside me.

After hearing my answer, I saw a tear falls from the eyes of the person who asked me about my hobby.

I felt aghast because he hugged me. I freak out and pushed him with all my strength. It's kinda rude but I don't know him, what do you expect me to do?

"I'm sorry for hurting you, Andrea. I'm sorry." He said while crying as he looks on the floor.

His words feel like a trigger in my mind that I'm able to remember everything for an instant as I closed my eyes when I felt pain in my head.

I had an amnesia.

This person who asked me about my hobby is the same person who broke my heart.

I drowned myself with liquors because of that. I was so drunk that night that I could barely walk—I even couldn't think straight.

All I can remember is I crossed the highway and I got hit by a car.

I looked at Dale, wow, I can even remember his name. He's still crying, asking for my forgiveness, yet I can't forgive him.

"Forgive me for not forgiving you," I said and turn my back on him as I walk away.