Why does it always seem like I'm on deadline? I finish a story,
place the copy, and BAM, I'm doing it all over again. I'm sick of
layouts, I'm sick of editing, but most of all I am sick of this room.
Is it me, or is it quiet it here? Always quiet.
It wasn't always like this. I love writing. It's who I am. My every
hour, waking or not, is spent molding and shaping sentences.
But every time I see her, my words fail me. My usual wit and
humor evade me, and I'm left to fend for myself, as she stands
there completely composed.
Of course there's no reason for her to be anything but casual.
The simplest smells, briefest glimpses and lightest of touches
don't bother her. I've prided myself for years on just how
observant I can be. I notice things other people don't and that
always put me a step further than them. Now it works against me
and all I can see are the little things she does.
And each time this happens, I remember that though I know
every move she makes, she doesn't notice a thing I do. I'm
Clark's 'weird' friend. I'm that newspaper reporter. Not Chloe. Not
This is what I think about when I write. My mind rambles on
about the latest addition to my Wall of Weird while my fingers
draw teensy hearts and flowery 'L's.
I don't draw hearts. I don't lament about unrequited love·please
tell me love is too strong a word. Please. I don't think my
remaining sanity could take it.
The quiet seems to blanket me and if I'm forced to stay in this
room any longer, it'll suffocate me. I'm sure of it. But if I leave I
could run into her. That is definitely not a good thing.
So, I'll stay in here, with my words and my computers and my
quiet. And I'll pull out a red pen and rewrite the same sentence
I've been writing for three hours straight and pray my next thought
isn't of her.