𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐗

• 10 •

My failure on Keenan's little task last Saturday's been a flock of crows pecking at my personal esteem. The aplomb I've always kept sturdy and whole had been nibbled on by black-feathered creatures with beaks made of degradation. Dead. I was more or less dead when I arrived at his house exactly five minutes ago.

I didn't exit my car right away like I always do. Instead, I favored myself time to recompose, the 're' I'm still not sure of because I don't know if I had been composed to begin with. You wanna know why? Well, I put milk before my cereal this morning.

The exchange activity was a small thing, but it had me feeling bad about my skills. It planted one of those thoughts that are bound to get bigger, feed it or not. How the hell was Jessica able to think of all that? How the hell did Adil manage to compose his work? Even Slater, how the fuck was he able to write art? For the past few days, I've been reading over the large archive of literary pieces by yours truly on my PC. It's human nature to judge oneself and I wish wasn't human at all.

I shook my head, the crows flying away. I hope they don't come back soon. I took out the tiny mirror I always keep in my bag and examined the reflection of myself. Same blue eyes, same slightly-turned up nose, same pale skin, and same simple lips. Satisfied aka knowing there's nothing I can change about the way I look even if I didn't want to, I put the mirror back in my bag, grabbed the bag, and headed out. Once Lemon was locked, I took my time reaching the front doors of Keenan's home.

I poked the buzzer with my pinky. It took Keenan exactly fifty-three seconds to appear. Upper extremities exposed, he regarded me with hooded eyes. He rubbed the said hooded eyes, my own following his muscular arms. Goddamnit.

We didn't bother with greetings. Keenan glared and I raised both brows as I crossed my arms in front of me. I don't know what we were staring at each other for, but I was the one to put an end to it. I stepped forward and entered the foyer. Keenan closed the door and trailed behind me as if he were the guest.

Before I could plop down on my favorite seat in the house, Travino spoke from a distance, "Adil's joining us."

I turned and shot him a quizzical look. It was enough to get him talking, "You told him about Wednesdays, huh? He texted me and asked if he can join and I said why not?" he spread his arms weakly, "I'm getting pretty tired of seeing just you anyway."

I sighed sharply and landed on the black cushion, "Sounds great," I spoke with lack of conviction.

I watched as Keenan strode off to one side of the living room and poured himself a glass of cinnamon-colored alcohol. He held it in his hand as he leaned against a wall. I hate to admit it, but every little physical thing Keenan does is appealing to my eyes. There's something entrancing with the way he moves.

"Is my writing bad?" I asked and expected a reply from a mentor and not from Keenan. Yesterday, writing was more stressful than fun and it felt wrong. I need to hear the right words from the right person.

Keenan paused and thought about it. The invisible switch from Keenan who says fuck all the time to philosophical Keenan was flipped.

He spoke, "There's no good writing and there's no bad writing. There's writing that'll make you wanna vomit. There's writing that'll make you want to question your existence. There's writing that'll make you happy. There's writing that'll make you fall in love. There's writing that will confuse you. There's writing that will make you jealous, and writing that will make you confident," he took a sip of his liquor and I saw passion behind the glass, "See, Gia, writing is so much more than just good or bad. People need to realize that."