Writing's Second Taste

Chapter Six: Best Friend

"So what's your story?" Adam questioned as we got out of the taxi. Stepping onto the sidewalk, I marveled at the town that I was currently in. Geography had never been one of my strong suits so I wasn't even sure where we were, but even though it was buzzling with people, it was still relatively peaceful.

Our university was, as you say, was kind of known for its love of the arts. From journalism to majoring in theatre, they are willing to help you explore your talents. Coming from that, it was no surprise that the people in the main city started constructing their buildings and houses to reflect the famed school.

The shops were differing in colors, all distinct from the others. Each one had their own personality and while standing on the spot where Adam told the driver to drop us off at, I figured out we were smack in the middle of the shopping lanes.

"What?" I asked absentmindedly as I stared at one of the shop's windows. Pink, that was the single way that I could describe it. It looked like it was set up for a tea party with the two chairs colored with a baby pink hue and the table in-between was covered with a white cloth. Tea cups, saucers, tea pot, and fake snacks were on top.

If someone would give me that, I would have walked out on them. Sure, I could portray the girly act at times, but if you do something as frilly as that, I would smack you.

"I told you mine about my best friend," he said me, taking the lead, "What's yours?"

Which story did he want? About the single relationship that I managed to tell to the world? Or my lack of creativity that was haunting me? I damned myself the moment I proposed the idea of writing a book to my mother and now I was paying the consequences.

Being an author was an odd kind of fame. People know your name, but not your face. You'll hear them talking about you but they wouldn't know you were standing right there – only a select few were easily caught in the middle of a sea of people.

But me? The picture at the back of the book I wrote barely resembled me at all and the way my thought processed inside my head has definitely changed.

Love is and never will be as easy as roses and chocolates. Making the guy notice you will not be as simple as smiling at him. Asking a girl out could be more nerve-wracking than you could ever imagine.

All those is what I've learned by twisting my love story. I tried to give it some flair, sugarcoating almost everything. Halfway through, I realized that it was no longer true to word.

Because the breakup I experienced was not a throat-screeching, vase throwing, or hair pulling ending. Instead, it was a mutual agreement to go on our separate ways because I've noticed that there were other things that we had to figure out as individuals.

So I scrapped the whole thing and rewrote.

We were still friendly after it all – he congratulated me with the book when it first got published without a single idea that it was about him.

I wrote him a forty chaptered love letter and he didn't even know.

In the middle of the happy cheers my friends gave and the annoying demands for free copies, I figured out that this was how they now see me. Not as the girl who sat there, laughing along with the silliest jokes or not minding one bit if we would just lay in one of our houses, eating ice cream or something. What they saw was that young teen author, they distanced themselves as if one book in the market was going to change the way I treated them.

So I plucked out the friends who weren't afraid to throw me a teasing insult or to call me up in the middle of the night, expecting me to get frustrated with them and they'll just laugh my words off. They were the ones that I wanted to stay with.