boundless

tangled up in blue

After the argument, I sat at my kitchen table silently. Then I started to think about my play and how it was such a mess. I wondered if the mess of a play I wrote had foreshadowed that moment of my life. I also wondered if foreshadowing ever really happened in real life or if there were just odd coincidences.

I was so stubborn that I thought I would be unwilling to forgive her for the trivial dispute in the hallway. I was also too stubborn to ever apologize to her.

Then I started to think about the nameless girl; the protagonist of my play. That's when I figured out the girl's name. The girl was named Kate. They shared practically no similar characteristics, but they were the same person in essence. I was writing for Kate, so I was writing about Kate.

Sometime after this revelation, I stormed out of the kitchen and into my bedroom. I opened the laptop and deleted the entire script and any notes I had made about it.

I picked up the printed version of act one that Kate had left sitting on my bedside dresser and tore it to shreds. I then swiftly threw the shreds out the window. (I'm not sure that pedestrians were thrilled about that).

I was back to where I started. Without any distractions, I would be able to write nonstop.

I pulled off my jacket and kicked off my shoes before sitting on my bed and starting to type rapidly. I had several ideas that were floating around in my mind that needed to be written.

Kate and I didn't talk at all the first week after that conversation. Or the second. The Wednesday of the third week, I heard a loud, confident knock on my door.

I wasn't doing well, but I was prepared for being ambushed by her like this. That was the thing: I tricked everyone on the outside into thinking that I was alright, while on the inside everything was just complete chaos.

I hadn't grown one of those depression beards or stopped going out on a regular basis. I moved on with my life, and I noticed that she did the same. The only thing that seemed to be holding me back was having her so close that I couldn't forget her.

In the three weeks I had been alone, I had written several short stories (that were published in local magazines and newspapers) and the first few scenes of my screenplay written. That's right, screenplay. I figured out that what I wanted to do wouldn't work on a stage, so I decided to switch to screenwriting. It really wasn't much of a change.

When I finally answered the door, there she stood, looking fantastic. The beginning of a smirk played on her solemn face as she said, "I believe I left a few things here--"

"Yeah, I thought you'd come by at some point," I interrupted as I disappeared from the doorway to grab a cardboard box full of her things, then reappeared. "Here." I handed it to her. "If you have anything of mine at your place, you can keep it. I haven't noticed its absence, so I probably don't need any of it."

She rolled her eyes. She was just as stubborn as me. I had to admit that it was nice to talk to her again, even if we were both bitter as shit over absolutely nothing.

The trace of a smirk had gone from her face. She took the box from me and briefly looked through it. She looked back up at me. "Where'd you put the script?"

"In the trash."