It was a first for him.
Sitting in front of that old typewriter, instead of typing something ridiculously science fictional in his macbook. Being completely out of words, not knowing whether he should write something or just sit in the chair, until he actually dies right there without anyone else knowing or caring. That wouldn't be entirely true...because some might. Some might still think of him as an actual human being, not a drug addict, who has been mourning for over three months now, not leaving the apartment, barely eating anything. He knew someone has been paying the rent for him. He knew because he would've been thrown out by then, if they hadn't.
He stood up, and sat back again. Repeated those movements a few times. Finally he decided to stand, and walk around the empty apartment, knocking everything over, deep inside knowing that he won't find any pills there. What pills you might think. He didn't know, he took all of them, without looking.
The young man, looked about five years older than he actually was. His shaky hands, and the bags under his eyes made him look old and broken. He slowly walked up to the curtains, pulling them open. That's the only way he knew what part of the day he was enduring. Enduring, surviving...surviving.
As he pulled them open, the light felt blinding. It was snowing outside. She loved snow. That being the first thought, he immediately closed the curtains. Letting go used to be easy for him. Letting go was the only thing, besides writing, that he was ever good at. But he couldn't. Everything reminded him of her. Every detail of every single thing in his apartment, everything outside, every move and every breath reminded him of her.
He sat back down, and looked at the typewriter. It belonged...belongs to her. As does his heart, and every single muscle in his body. Everyone thought that he was crazy. That he has gone mad, and maybe...maybe he did, but he wanted people to know that he isn't mad. Still, if we think about it, being a writer equals being mad. Being capable of seeing through thousands of point of views, that is mad.
Obviously, he wasn't the same person everyone used to be fond of, he didn't like the red carpet treatment anymore, in fact, he was hiding from it. Hiding. He knew, he knew perfectly well that she would be really mad at him for being such a baby. That's what she would have said, if she saw him. She said that a dozen times. He ran his fingers through his hair. He had to do something. She'd be mad, she'd be so mad.
Placing his hands on the buttons of the typewriter felt odd. It was like touching a piece of her, it felt inappropriate. She liked, no, adored inappropriate. He started typing. He couldn't say it out loud. It was the hardest thing he had to do. Those five letters, put next to each other, were his whole world, his only light in the forest of shadows, embracing and suffocating him. But it was the only way. He had to close that part of the misery he called his life.
He laid back in the chair, feeling the usual tears in his eyes, as those five letters got blurry again.
Gemma.
Normally, he would've torn the paper out of the typewriter, and go and break something, if there was anything left to break in the tiny appartment. This time he didn't. He continued writing. He needed an escape, and in one way or another, he knew it was her. Her, and her story. Their story. He let his walls down, and let the memories flood his mind. His feelings started forming sentences, and that is how our story starts. By going mad, in a fair few different point of views.
