Behind the muck and murk lies a beautiful white slate, she wrote.

Just then a bee at the window caught her eye and she shut her notepad.

She got up and stretched. It had been a while since she wrote.

She took a huge swig of coffee and settled by the windowsill, letting the breeze cool her flushed cheeks. Her eyes hovered on the sea, drinking it slowly.

More than her parents, it was George Harrison, Audrey, Jaques Derrida, fairylights, Gayatri Spivak, rain, Yann Tiersen, Toni Morrison, dance, sea breeze and the Roman Holiday that consummated to create her.

She could have dropped form and become energy any moment. There was not one atom in her that could sit. Only the sea could calm her. The sea was her anchor.

That day, the rest of her was a storm. At having participated in love that was selfish and petty. She forgot to check on herself a lot of times. She traded what she wanted with what he’d asked for.

The doorbell rang, washing away her thoughts with its sing-song, whimsical melody.

She nimbly hopped to the door and opened it.

And there they were. A bunch of orchids, Merlot and dark chocolate. Things he knew she liked. Things others had told him she liked. Things she had told him she liked.

It could have made her really happy. That optimistic nut would have put everything aside, embraced the flowers and the gesture along with it. She would have opened up her heart. Let him in, again. Given him space to scratch her from within, whenever his mania took over, again.

She laughed at herself as she watched herself grow up, in front of the courier man. She asked him to return.

And took back her beginnings.

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