the air is thick – quiet, with the slightest bit of repetitive sounds from the ceiling fan. it's become a regularity where you sit crossed-legged on your bed with a notepad in your lap, a pen in your hand, and a hole in your heart. the monotonous noises become sort of a pendulum tick. it times your thinking. click. i'm entranced by you. click. you're all i think about. click. i want to write pages of poetry about your smile. eventually, it drives you crazy enough to stand up and shut the fan off. though, the thoughts still linger as your pen hovers over the yellow-tinted page. a moue is present on your face, topped with the tiniest narrowing of eyebrows. you contemplate why none of those feelings implanted in your mind can come alive in this new piece – why none of the words seems worthy enough. everything is jumbled in your head between musings of this person and a bunch of bolded 'WHY's and you're suddenly stuck in a rut of questioning. the room gets hot. you turn the fan back on. it takes eight and a half clicks for you to realize that you're in love.
YOU ARE READING
Unsent Letters.
Short StoryA handful of letters that will never quite get to its intended recipient. NO COPYRIGHT INTENDED.
