Remembering Love

1. Bad Habbit

Calypso POV:

I was running. That was all I could remember... Running. My chest was rising and falling in an inconsistent pattern. My breaths were uneven and was giving out random spurts. Honestly, I've been running for so long I don't even remember why. All I knew was that I needed to get as far away from here as possible, as fast as I could. I ran, pushing through, even though my entire body was getting sore. Pain was rushing throughout me with every agonizing step I took. Then it all stopped... I stood frozen in my tracks. There fixated before me, underneath the glow of the moon was...

"No, no. NO!" I groaned, ripping out the page from my notebook and chucking it to the pile of other crumpled up endings. "It's all wrong" I complained. I'm very precise when it comes to my work, if it didn't fit my absolute satisfaction then it got scraped, banished to the land of misfit ideas, there to forever lay. I rolled over on my bed, so I was now lying on my back. I covered my face with my hands and let out a loud scream of frustration.

Why is this so difficult? I've been a writer from the moment I picked up a pen, and never, in my life, have I ever had difficulty coming up with an ending. I guess this time was a bit different, since last time I sent my work to a publisher. It took me weeks to finally build up the courage just to send the daft of my work, and when I got a response I was ecstatic. Her email back was straight forward yet thorough. She informed me that she had enjoying my novel of revenge and mystery, and especially enjoyed the subplot of romance, but that it was missing a few key factors. "well written," she had said in the email, "but missing depth". For that reason, she was not going to publish my work, but she did encourage me to keep trying and to come back again next time, with a little more umf! Whatever that means.

The memory frustrated me, that the fact that I apparently had the talent but have not truly mastered the art. I sat up in my bed, glaring at the wall. As if all my ideas were trapped behind the ugly shade of beige that painted the walls and me glaring at it would peel back the paint freeing all my great ideas. I was so lost in thought that I nearly jumped at the loud sound of knocking at my dorm room door.

I reached over for my phone that was lying on my bedside table, I clicked it open to the lock screen to check the time. It was 11:30pm, all I could think of was, who the fuck is knocking on my door this late?

I got up and walked over to my door, acknowledging the fact that I looked like shit and was in my blue footsie pajamas. There standing in the frame of my now open door, was none other than my best friend Sam.

"Hey beautiful," he said strutting into my room and sitting on my bed "I got bored so I was thinking you could do something to cheer me up" he had a cheeky grin plastered on his face, but I could see right through his façade.

"Cut the bullshit Sam, I'm not in the mood" I said turning around and falling onto my back.

"What's wrong?" he asked, leaning back towards me.

"Book issues" I sighed

"Still? Come on. You've been working on it non-stop, no wonder you have writers block. You need to get out, have some fun. Let loose." I stared up at him. Sam was handsome. He had thick blonde hair, that was full at the top but faded out to the bottom. His eyes were a blue-gray of stormy skies, that with one look, would rattle your very core. His face was long but molded nicely at his perfectly straight jaw. Not only did he look like he was ready to party, his personality was always ready to party too. He was a very vigorous guy, living life to the fullest.

"I've been out," I argued.

"No," he accused "you go to sessions and then come back to your room to write. Anyone would be lucky enough to even see you go out for food. Sometimes I wonder if you even eat!"