Choices We Cant Make

one : perspective

VIOLET POV

I like the rain. I like looking past my window- parallel to my eyes, which shows me a world I never was familiar with.

I have been living in New York for about 2 years now, but my perspective has always been drawn to the heights of the sky scrappers- and the dark, dark sky.

This familiarity, this perspective- towards this unknown city, grew only in my new job - my dream job.

I am sitting on my desk, a cornered arrangement mounted to the wall. There are 15 more writers, just like me - full of passion, and hunger to feel "unique". I have never seen the New York skies as wet, as I am seeing today ,a different perspective.

I had always imagined evenings like this, to be scary and haunting- like a batman movie- dark and thrilling, with background chuckles infiltrating the mind. Left unnoticed. Of course. Who cares about the crack head teenagers lurking around Gotham Grounds?

I hate to admit, that I hate my job.

Yet it had always been a dream to be a writer- in new York. It never hit me, how artistically drained I could feel. But hey, it is raining - it is an excuse. All the other writers, 15, do not look up. They do not bother. It is as if, their stories can have more romance than what awaits outside- the tempting rain.

I was supposed to edit a poem - the most boring thing to do. Editing. I hate it. I either have the urge to write the same story in a much better way, or to leave it to its misery and watch it sell. But, I have to do my job- after all, it is my dream job. It is the job I left my home for.

Rebecca catches me, staring into the rain. She says I look like a toddler eyeing at candy. I smile, but I grow conscious- because who wouldn't?

"How has your edit been going?" she asks in a very motherly tone.

"I dont like this poem Rebecca. It is absolutely ridiculous." I retaliate.

"Thats what you say to every other edit that comes your way" Exactly!

"That is because it is true." I conclude.

I want Rebecca to leave, to leave me alone with my sight- with my perspective. I love the rain. It reminds me of him. It reminds me of Sam.

"V, you need to finish your edit. It needs to be done by Wednesday."

Today is Monday.

I have the entire of Tuesday ahead of me- and it is just a short poem. It does not require my attention right now. The rain requires my eyes, the perspective requires my curiosity and the big bold city requires my opinion.

"Ill do it tomorrow"

"Violet, no. It's your birthday tomorrow. You cant possibly come to work! You know we have a birthday leave!"

Right,. I can not. I will not. What a perfect excuse. But that means finishing my edit right now.

But hold on. HOLD ON. It is my birthday TOMORROW. A realization grows upon me. Im gonna turn 24. 24. tEWNTY four. And no, I am not thrilled.

I have aspired to be a writer since I was 12, I said to myself, in the next 12 years I'll be a famous writer. That very promise made me join NYU and then, further, into taking this as a career.

But am I a famous writer? No.

Have I published anything yet? No.

Have I tried? No.

The rain does not look pretty anymore. I finish my edit after Rebecca leaves, and then I leave. I leave to my old perspective of the city- the stone marked pavements presenting to me an old New York box. I book a taxi and go back to my apartment. My little, tiny. Home.

It is 11:56PM. 4 minutes to my birthday, and I can not sleep. I was busy skimming through my very many old novels I had written - choosing which one to publish. Non of them seem appetizing. I never realized I wrote that bad.

At 12, my phone rings

I am not expecting anyone to call me. My parents can - but they are dead.

I do not expect Rebecca, my only friend, because she sleeps at 10. And Im not that important to her.

I honestly, am not expecting anyone, But I long for him. Him.

It is him.

It is Sam.

My Sam. Except not the one I had fallen for.

"Happy Birthday Ms.Violet Brew" he states. He says it in a way which does not give a glimpse of remorse. As if nothing ever broke between us - I know I did.

"You remember? Or are you at a party and somebody dared you to call me?" I protest, with a hunch of humor in me.

"Either way, I remember of course, And no, I'm at home."

It hits me, I had blocked his number- thrice. Last week I had unblocked him - just because I missed him. I missed us.

"Okay. Thank you for wishing. You should sleep" I inform- with care.

"What are you writing now a days?" Why do you change the subject all the time?

"Nothing. I can't write." I honestly answer.

"Since July?"

July was when I lost my mother.

"No. Since February"

February was when we broke up. Us ended.

"Do you journal anymore?"

"Yes of course I do"

I lie. I had stopped since February. Because my journals were about him, about us. But I do not want him to know that. I keep the phone after a while and open a new blue journal which has a golden shimmer on its cover. I cringe at the childish design and dub my journal "My journal, which shall not be about Him"