Late at night, I open a window to my world. The paper is dark. The cursor’s golden glow illuminates the page; the unknown that lies ahead of its blinking form. Words are pearl-white, leaving a carefully paved pathway through the darkness.
On this night, as always, I am in love.
My best friend is an artist. She pulls her lines, they streak across the page, joining together in a strange dance. They form a figure. I recognize him, out of reach, in fiction’s world. And I, being a fool; I am in love.
One thousand. Two thousand. Words strung together. More than I could ever force myself to write. Three thousand. Nine complete pages. How long have I committed to this? This doesn’t feel like writing. It feels like planning for the distant future.
“A warm, ¦¦¦¦¦ arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me to rest against him once more. I smile, putting my own in the curve of his back.”
If only the window let light in.
There’s always been something comforting about being able to open these windows. To create an entire world with a few keystrokes, a paradise for myself, even though they are so far out of reach; I can read my imagined sensations over and over as many times as I like, but I will still not feel the warm embrace.
His warm embrace.
Which “him” is it now?
` Infatuation with a fictional character appears to be a common ailment. Still, though, I can feel a pit in my stomach when I know that I will never be with them, that I can only influence their world from the other side of the window.
I blink at my screen. It blinks back.
It’s pathetic. Pitiful, even. I’m such a lonely person, really, though I try my best to seem happy.
Late at night, my world shrinks to the size of a room. My laptop is sitting on a desktop, as out of place as I am. My fingers dance across the keys with surprising ease, with their own style, not quite home-row, not quite hunt-and-peck. My ears are flooded with lounge music, spurring inspiration within me. It feels like playing a role; a character who is not at all like me… what would they say, here? What would they do in this situation?
I finish the ninth page, the third chapter. For the first time in a long time, I’ve lasted longer than a single chapter. With a sigh, I smile, satisfied. It’s time to go to bed, but I’m staring in the mirror.
Despite everything, it’s still me.
I wish that I could at least dream about him. Maybe then it would be okay when I don’t wake up next to him; when the morning comes beaming through my window, and I am still as alone as I was nine hours ago.
Last night, I sent my friend the chapter. She says that she loves it, the way that I do when she draws something new. Together, we open a much larger window. The only issue is that the character I’ve been enamored with is hers. She says that I have his characterization down, that I understand him--but I still feel a resentment and a pressure to make him act a certain way.
Because of this, he can’t love me back.
Because of that, I will keep writing.
Because of this, I will keep feeling lonely and pitiful.
Because of that, I will keep writing.
