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"Okay I have to go write a new chapter" I beamed, snatching my notebook off the crisp wooden table but he stands in objection,
"Wait!" He calls.
"Why are you always writing." He asks me with a confused look painted on his face and I turned with a sigh, watching the dust swirl in the air as I kicked the gravel of the local park.
"I write because I can't speak." I say with a bow and turn to leave, though yet another question.
"Why can't you speak?" He asks.
"Speaking creates vulnerability to the chance that the person im speaking to won't listen. Or they'd drift off, ask me to repeat it. Repeated things aren't nearly as good as the first time said. Speaking creates room for failure unable to edit back later." I stand and accept the next question that I already knew was coming.
"You never answered my first question" he says, in which I replied with a small head tilt.
"Why are you always writing?" He repeats.
"I write about things that sadden me, that weigh on my chest like a truck full of bricks driving over me. I write about heart wrenching sad thoughts I could never get out of my head otherwise. I write because it's a painless reliever." I say. He simply frowns and averts his gaze to the gravel.
I finally turn and take more than three steps forward,
What he said next made me cease all given movement I was planning to do,
