Enjolras remained in the café long after his friends departed. Not only was the meeting a success for Enjolras, but his friends, he thought, were more ready to make a difference. He had stayed behind to start writing a speech for the next meeting, but his mind was wandering. He did not intend on speaking about Éponine that night, but he had to show her he didn't forget what happened. Did she even realize it was him who had saved her when they were introduced? Or did she only realize it when he began to tell the story? Her eyes did get wide when he told it. Enjolras leaned back in his chair and pushed his fingers through his hair. Éponine probably thought he was a freak. Using her attempted suicide to have an excuse to rebel. He laughed at himself. Pathetic. No matter how hard he tried, every time he took a step towards his goal, he was pushed back by doubt. No matter how passionate he seemed, how determined he looked, he was still a nervous little boy in the shell of a man. He slammed his hand on the table and stood up. He couldn't think about the cause when he was doubting himself. He decided to gather his things and go home. He reached his run-down apartment and shuffled the papers in his arms to unlock the door. He pushed the door open and plopped the papers down on the table. He looked around the apartment. It was trashed, just like he left it. There were papers everywhere. Papers on the table, on the couch, in he kitchen, they were just scattered everywhere. He never realized how big of a mess his place was. Ever since he "moved out" of his parent's house a few months ago, the apartment became his storage place. He never really spent any time there unless he was sleeping or eating. The Café Musain was his home, the place he went to to find peace and quiet. He started to go through the papers that were strewn across the room. Most were unfinished copies of speeches or ones that he tried to write but never could. They seemed to mock him as he was reading them, showing that he really wasn't fit to be a leader. He sighed. He released the papers and sent them fluttering to the floor. He sat down at the table and tried valiantly to write a new speech, as an act of defiance against his doubt and the papers. He scribbled feverishly, trying to connect his thoughts into words. When it was done he read it over, and once again was disappointed in what he saw. His head was pounding and he just wanted to scream out in frustration. Before he even realized what was happening, his fist slammed into the wall, sending waves of pain up his arm. He made his way to his bedroom and flung himself onto the bed. He stared at the ceiling for the longest time before he finally took off his shirt and climbed into bed. Tomorrow was a new day, he tried to tell himself optimistically, but he already knew that tomorrow would bring exactly what today brought: doubt.
(Really short chapter, sorry guys)
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Not a Dream
Fanfiction"One rainy night in Paris, there was a girl running. The brisk wind cut through her wet, tattered dress. She felt like she was running for hours through the slums of the city, when in fact, it was only minutes. She knew he would send someone after...
