Where We Met

Chapter One Despair

Chapter One
Definition:

Despair: The feeling of complete loss or absence of hope.

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Alaska

I hated, hated, the feeling of how dreams made no sense after you woke up. Not being able to recall the world you entered in your dream state but you could still taste the lingering feeling of something amazing and adventurous on your lips. Not able to place your finger on the exact dream ever again and that was the depressing part in my opinion. I never had a problem waking and getting up in the early morning. Being born as an early bird I felt the most productive and creative at the crack of dawn- maybe not that early but still. There was nothing better than sitting on my desk with a cup of chai tea and my laptop in front of the big window to watch the sun slowly rise and dipping the world in a soft mix of yellow and orange glow. I loved those mornings when I felt the most relaxed and happiest- even though it never lasted for long.

My eyes fell on my desk which was a literal mess. Loose pieces of papers were mindlessly scattered on the surface, coffee mugs stacked on top of each other so they would take up less space. In the middle was my laptop- buzzing quietly because I forgot to turn it off last night after I fell asleep while typing. It wasn't too annoying but I still wouldn't describe it as a peaceful sound. Even though I dragged my laptop everywhere with me -I would still consider myself as a notebook kinda girl. I just enjoyed writing down on paper more than using a blank document but it was more work. It was easier to delete and rephrase instead of crossing everything out.

In my room alone; I had about more than a dozen notebooks: most of them were scattered around the floor, on my enormous white bookshelf, on my desk and even in my bed in case my imagination struck in the middle of the night- which happened quite often but not often enough.

Every single one of these little books was filled with my thoughts, ideas, poetry and in some, I even hid my deepest wishes and secrets never allowing them to see the light of day. And some of them, not many, just a few - patiently waiting for me to touch them and give them a new purpose. I knew that my way of forming sentences out of lost words wasn't the most delicate or extraordinary but it was honest and real I couldn't praise myself with a big vocabulary and a breathtaking imagination so I had to write about what I know, how I experienced life and how it treated me; the good, the bad and even the dirty.

I never had a problem getting up in the morning but today I couldn't. Maybe because it was 5 o'clock in the morning and I was contemplating my life choices or maybe because I realized that I got 3 more months till I had to submit the novel – my novel- if I could even call it that. At the moment it was nothing than an outline and a sad excuse for a story. I knew what I wanted to write but not how. My writing was bad- my wording not as delicate as it used to be, not even interesting or even clever. It was just like I vomited all over the page and now I couldn't find a way to clean up the mess.

The closer I got to the deadline the more I doubted myself- the more I started to hate the plot; the characters; my writing and my decision of choosing a job where I had to rely on my inner voice. But it was the only thing I was good at the only reason why I didn't go insane and the only thing I didn't grow to hate. I grew up not knowing what I wanted to be. When other kids had new ideas every day- it was easier for me to decide what not to be, what not to like instead of what to be and what not to like

Finally, my fear of failures got me out of bed dragging my feet over the cold wooden floor to my desk. I swirled right round on my chair to face my desk and the notebook in front of me. The empty pages seemed to taunt me. I turned my laptop on and took my pen in my right hand. I read through the last page even though I already memorised everything, trying to get back where I left off but I didn't know what to do. I couldn't focus. There wasn't a single English word I could use to continue the paragraph. Writing is actually such a lonely thing to do. Sometimes I spend hours and days just within my own head, without even realising that I haven't spoken to a living soul in ages. I haven't talked to my parents in three days and we were living under the same roof And from time to time it scares me how much I enjoy to do just that: Get away from everything by spending time with these people in my mind, in worlds I created, with ever purple skies and never-fading summer nights

I felt tears welling up in my eyes, squeezing them shut and hoping that would stop them from running down my cheeks. I need some water I decided

Taking a deep breath as I stood up. ' Hey, sweetie. You look absolute horrible'my dad greets me as I sat down on the table. Usually, I loved having a big breakfast but right now just the thought of food was making me sick.

'Aren't you hungry, Alaska? '

'Not really. ' I picked up the knife and looked at my reflexion. My hair was a literal mess and dark spots marked my normally pale face and before I even got a glimpse of my burst lip I put down the cutlery.

'You look like you didn't sleep in ages, ' my mother added caressing my hair as she walked by.

'I didn't or at least I am feeling like that. This time it's just impossible for me. I feel like giving up.' I whispered burying my head in my hands.

'That's what's you said the last time.' Dad gave me a reassuring smile and rubbing big circles on my arm.

'But this time it's different. I feel like all my imagination is gone and I don't know where I can find it again. I don't know how I could finish this book. ' I hid my face so my parents won't see my despair.

'Maybe it's the sign of the time. Maybe it time to stop. Maybe you need to get a real job. ' a cold voice chirped. I didn't have to turn around to know that it was my sister.

She took the chair next to me and dragged it opposite me where she sat down.  With her blonde curly hair and brown eyes and her eyes glued to the ground beth was the complete opposite of me.  She was very straightforward and knew since 6 grade what she wanted to be. A doctor, at the moment she was in her first year of med school she got straight A's but was never really happy.

'Beth. Stop it' Dad warned her. She hated the fact that mum and dad supported my decision to be a writer. For her, books were nothing more than letters in an arbitrary order not making sense. Dad used to study journalism back in university and mum was a huge bookworm so I thought she sometimes felt left out. She always used to be the odd one but that does not give her the right to behave like that.

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A/N: Welcome and thank you for reading my first chapter. Please let me know what you think. I know there wan't loads of action but i hope this chapter was hooking enough.

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