She had an ink pen that wrote a story of her love, of her life. She sketched in the corner of her canvas, just to add a sense of originality into the notes she dutifully took every day. She wrote reminders on her hand, because she was often forgetful. She would pencil in the circles of separate letters, loop her cursive words together. She'd bite her lip when she wrote too, but it was only when she was nervous. And she was anxious all the time, to do work, to live up to everything. They could not see her heart collapsing every time the ink splattered or failed. And when the day comes, the pen will stop working, and she will never use a pen again; for her heart is bleeding ink and it will never be refilled.
