untitled // phan

hiraeth

hiraeth // chapter one

He wrote about love.

He was a writer, one could say - incredibly romantic, but also poetic. He turned feelings into words because it was what he could do best; he was an artist, and his canvas were other people's minds, where he drew pictures with the mere help of the right words.

But it was fictional. A fictional concept - at least that was what he believed love to be. He saw it happen to other people, they fell in love all the time, but he couldn't do that. Love, to him, was something that was made up, something people held on to so they had a reason to live, much like a religion.

Considering that, maybe he was an atheist.

So, no, he didn't believe in real love. Sure, lust was a thing, and of course you could like someone a little more than other people. But to him, love as we see it in the movies was an illusion, a lie people told themselves so life seemed less pointless. Fictional, just like witches, vampires, or dragons.

Yet it was all he longed for; the comfort of being held by someone he loved, having someone that he would die for and that would return those strong emotions. So, in the end, what he wrote was what he wished for. He turned feelings into words, indeed, but not his loving feelings. It was the longing ones, the ones wishing for something he believed was fictional to be real.

So when the 24-year-old sat in his flat somewhere in the grey city of London, on a windowsill with a lit cigarette between his lips, he thought about the characters. His characters, one should say, because after all, he was the one who had made them all up.

It's not like anyone cared, though. His works kept being turned down by all publishers he had contacted, and he had slowly begun to lose hope. But who are we kidding, that had already happened years ago.

Back then, however, it had still seemed like a good idea to take a course for creative writing at university. Now, he was drowning in his thousands of pounds of debt. But what else was there he could do?

Writing was his passion, though he was at a point where it seemed, well, pointless to him, but what didn't these days? Depression took a toll on him, but he kept writing about feelings he had never really felt, living through other people's descriptions and narrations and making it seem like they were his own.

Dan took one last drag of his cigarette and exhaled the smoke right after. He watched the smoke merge with the raindrops that fell from the morning sky before it eventually vanished completely. With one move, Dan rose from the windowsill and placed the remnant of the thin cylinder of tobacco in an ashtray placed beside him.

He knew he was going to be late for work. But the brunet couldn't do much about it at this point anyway, so he didn't rush. He took his time to put on his coat and his shoes, and then placed the earphones in his ears so he could listen to Thom Yorke's soothing voice.

The rain fell down on him, however, he didn't mind too much. It was only a short walk down the street to the next tube station, and he had given up on straightening his hair quite some time ago.

He liked his work. Sure, it could be better paid, and sure, it wasn't his dream job, but he liked it. His boss, Margaret, was a grey-haired chubby woman in her early sixties, and always had a smile on her lips. To Dan, she was something like a third grandma.

"You're late again," she said the second he had walked into the old bookshop, and he smiled at her tone.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"My old ass is sorry," Margaret riposted, and the young man couldn't help but chuckle at her words.

"I'm gonna leave now," she then said, "Jennifer will join you in about an hour, alright? Don't burn the shop down with your goddamn cigarettes."

Dan smiled at her and rolled his eyes. "You know I don't smoke inside."

"Hm," was all Margaret said in response while she put on her jacket. "You promised me new chapters this week, by the way."

"Don't worry, I'm working on it."

After Margaret had found out that Dan was a writer, she had asked him if she could read some of his works. Dan refused at first, but eventually gave in and showed her some of what he had written. Now, he would always show to her what he had written recently, and that included new chapters of his yet to be titled novel. It wasn't the first novel Dan was working on - the fourth, actually - but the first he had shown to anyone else but himself, and he had to admit it was the one he was the proudest of.

"You better are. I can't wait."

Margaret looked at the brown-eyed man one more time, smiled, and finally turned around to leave the shop, leaving Dan all on his own.

Well, that was until a new costumer walked in.

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hiraeth (n)
a homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was.

❞

hey guys!! i hope you liked this :D

about the updating schedule for this; i'm planning on updating this every saturday, tuesday and thursday, though it might vary here and then because of the upcoming exam season etc etc

my other fics might be updated a little less frequently but lmao there wasn't any regularity anyway rip

thanks for reading! stay hydrated and try to go to sleep early please ♥️