I remember being hated by you for constantly asking you about your progress because I didn’t know then how hard it was to finish a draft. I remember being glared at for being too noisy when I didn’t notice you were at the most crucial part of your story. I remember being aroused when you started flirting with me then insulted after when you told me you were channeling your inner seductress for your bold character and wanted to know someone’s reaction first hand—I admit that I got worried for a while how easily you ignited the fire within me.
You inhale dialogues and scenarios for your stories. You live in your head with your characters. You sleep in different worlds every night.
I reckon that you think about what you’ll write next in the middle of love making.
But I love you more like that.
I love how you look when you try to concentrate hard on writing, ignoring every single distraction around you.
I love how you become easily pissed when you couldn’t get the parts of your story together.
I love how you impersonate your characters so every day was I feel like I was with different people.
I love how you stare out the window, looking like you’re in deep thought when you’re just actually procrastinating.
I’d often hear you conversing with yourself in the bathroom that at first I thought you were talking with someone. I’d hear you mumble every now and then and I’d answer, thinking that you’re talking to me when you’re not.
When out on a date, I’d know right away if you’re writing in your mind. The constantly changing expressions are always a dead giveaway. You’d suddenly sigh sometimes or you’ll smile or grin or tears would form at the corner of your eyes.
I also loved you even more at that one night in the middle of our date when I asked you what you love most, me or writing, and you stared at me dead in the eyes as if mentally saying to not make you choose. I almost choked on my steak because for a moment I am sure that you’d choose writing over me and since then I placed that question to rest.
But I do hope you’d stop giving me the reason, “I’m writing” when it’s already three in the afternoon and you haven’t eaten a thing yet. I do hope that you’d not tell me that it’s almost your deadline so you have to stay up all night.
I wish you’d have more self confidence so I wouldn’t come home hearing your cries in the bathroom because you’re work got rejected or that it wasn’t good enough for your editors. Because, Love, I’m telling you, being able to finish a story is more than enough when others can’t even get past chapter one.
I know, you’ve already made me your character.
Maybe you have tortured me in your book at that one time we argued and didn’t talked for days; maybe you’ve romanticized me too much or maybe I’ve already married you in your story—I’ll never know because you never let me read. You said you were too shy to let me and I didn’t insist, though I really want to.
But even if you’ve made me your loving protagonist or your sadistic antagonist, I still and will always love you—you and all the characters living inside you.