All my life, I have only known one person. I used to live in her mind, before. But a few months ago, she decided to use an empty journal and made it my new home.
When she first transferred me onto the blank pages, I met her daily. For hours, she kept my home on a table, and with her brown hair braided down her left side, always her left side, she used to sit biting her lower lip until it cracked, with a black pen in her hand.
I began to notice everything about her. The way she couldn't write past a few hundred words without a cup of coffee by her side, the way she often got distracted after an idea struck her and the way she would space out, looking outside of her bedroom window. She has the attention span of a baby, that one. She writes a few words and then a bird tweets somewhere and her eyes swiftly move on to her new object of fascination.
Sometimes, when she got frustrated, she would groan or curse out loud. I wish I could have talked to her, comforted her, and eased her pain somehow. But I'm just a collection of words in her journal and she's a human being. I only know the little things about her. If stories could talk, we could've been best friends. But alas, we can't and I'm stuck pretending that I don't have a life.
I don't know her name. I just know that she has large eyes and I think she might love me, for the way her eyes light up occasionally when she's writing. She completes a chapter and looks at me with a fierce pride evident in her eyes. She's never introduced me to anyone else, though. I wish she would. I would love to meet the people in her life. Or does she stay alone?
Oh, the pain of being non-living.
I don't see her often, these days. It's been a while since she last took me out of her dark cupboard and added more lines to my short existence. These days, I catch glimpses of her in my periphery when she walks into the room. But she never spares me her attention. I can't see much, save for my own pages pressed on each other, but sometimes it feels like she's started writing in another journal. She has an abundance of them.
Is this the end, then? Has she grown fonder and prouder of another story? Was I not enough?
Of course, I wasn't. I'm just a compilation of chapters that she has written. Maybe, if I would've tried to be better for her, if I would've helped her with ideas when she couldn't figure out where to take the plot further, she would still be here.
Perhaps I should stay in this dark cupboard and spend my days trying to come up with an interesting twist. That way, when my writer sees me again, she won't be disappointed.
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