She was worried. A month had passed since he’d told her about the death. A month and he was still to write another word. He was magical with words. He made you feel the pain of his characters, the joys and blessings of their lives, the romance of the scenes left you feeling the heat and his disgust made you scream in helpless terror. At the end, he left you craving for more. He’d left her spellbound every time he’d written for her. She waited for him to write again. His words completed him. She’d never met another like him. He matched her passion for words.
But then he lost a loved one and the words went away. He forgot to grieve. He felt direction less. He was numbed by life’s cruelty. Determined, he sat with a pen and pad. The ink flowed, but no words formed. His hand moved but the thoughts blew around like wisps. He clutched at straws but they fell through like sand. He knew she waited. And he tried. Until he couldn’t any longer. He cried. Until he couldn’t any longer. His body became numb, but the pain didn’t.
As she slipped her hand through his, he wanted to tell her that he tried. But she knew. She already knew. And her eyes said she’d wait with him. For as long as it would take.