‘Why have you stopped writing?’, he asked.
‘I can not seem to fathom my thoughts’. I replied. Partly true.
‘Is it because of me?’, he whispered.
‘No. Don’t be silly. It has got nothing to do with you’. I said. Unsure of who I was trying to convince. Him or me.
‘Then why have you deleted all your previous posts? It’s stupid of you’. He said.
‘Doesn’t matter, those weren’t good any way’. I spoke. A little too pissed.
He kept looking my way with an unreadable expression, then said, ‘It does matter. I really liked your writings and kept reading ’em time and again. But now I couldn’t. There’s none’.
I went silent for a minute.
How do I tell him that I don’t write anymore because it’s him. On my mind. All the thoughts. All the damn time. That even when I try hard to write something new, something people could relate to. I end up writing about him.
‘I just need a break’, I replied instead.
‘Write about us’, he spoke casually. But his eyes betraying, meaning every word.
It is all I do. I thought to myself.
‘Maybe, someday’, I told him.
Since then a day hasn’t passed when I didn’t write about us. About him.