This is the continuation of 'A prompt a day keeps insanity away', an old series of (excerpt from) short stories, written by me; this time inspired by random phrases I found on the internet. I may not interpret the prompt the way it was meant to be, so get ready for a huge mess and enjoy reading.
prompt four: i need my words back
'You've lost your what?' he looked over to the woman standing next to him, the same woman he gladly woke up to every single morning. His attention had now completely shifted from the sunny side up on his pan to whatever she was trying to say here.
She was obviously taking her time with the coffee, and if it wasn't clear enough already, her mind was wandering anywhere but their kitchen in this humble one-bedroom apartment.
'My touch. I'm talking about writing.' She seemed to finally snap out of it and began preparing another cup for her partner who, unbeknownst to her, had long abandoned his own task of making a decent breakfast for two.
His eyes followed her every movement as she was raking the fridge for some milk since John and his sweet tooth specifically craved for some flat white this morning.
'And why do you think so?' he asked.
Of course, he didn't miss the faint sigh and the slight pause in her movements. After all, they had been together for ten years and counting, and this wasn't particularly a new sight.
She had always found it difficult to lay bare her true feelings, and John learned it the hard way early on during the first couple of years of their relationship. Right now, she was probably trying to find the right word to describe whatever it was that made her think so.
'Anyway, while you're at it, would you like some butter on your toast?'
While he wanted to do nothing but resolve her concern, they had a wedding to attend in less than an hour, and their breakfast might end up being a pre-lunch snack if they were to drop the cooking part altogether. So, he went back to his task while trying his best not to pry for details.
'I don't want that,' she responded.
'You mean the toast, or—'
'I don't wanna lose my touch.' Unsurprisingly, for someone so eloquent on paper, someone who had her way with letters and poetry, she couldn't seem to verbally put her thoughts into words. Her impressive lexicon was reduced to a simple list of verbs and nouns, including touch, lose, and all its participles. 'And yes, add some butter, please.'
'Do you wanna talk about it?' Her gaze was hesitant, but she knew that eventually, she had to. And it's not like John wasn't one to be trusted. Oh, she could talk about anything to him, but there was a sense of shame when it came to this particular subject—which was ridiculous because she had literally and figuratively bared her naked soul in front of him.
'It's kinda scary,' she began. 'All my life, I have always wanted to write. That is, like, the only thing I'm actually good at.'
John tried so hard not to roll his eyes in response. He could list all the other things she was good at, like driving or baking. Her brownie was the second best thing in the world, right after the woman herself. The third one definitely went to her chicken pot pie.
'And now it feels more like a burden. It's not the same anymore.'
The look in her eyes was painful, reminding him of that one time she lost the only copy of her birth mother's handwritten message. She would tell herself that it's just a piece of paper, that the most important thing was the message itself; but he couldn't miss the hollow in her gaze every time they brought up the subject.
'It's like falling out of love.'
He placed the toast on their plates, and with that, breakfast was ready. They were now sitting side by side, their hands busy picking this and that, their minds rushing with thoughts and worry. Nobody said a word for a good minute or two, but John was determined to both finish his breakfast and console her at the same time.
'It is like that sometimes.' He took a big bite of his toast with a little bit of egg on top. He wished they could've had some bacon too, but somebody forgot to stop by the mart last night—and by somebody, he meant himself.
'You feel tired. You feel worthless. You don't even feel like doing what you love. You begin questioning yourself, and so on.'
The couple decided the conversation could wait for a bit and devoured the rest of their half-assed American breakfast.
'And that sucks.' John paused to wash down his meal with some coffee. 'I would feel like shit too if I ever looked at my guitar and told myself, 'You know what? Forget this.' That's not who I am. I just have so much going on in my head that I fail to listen to my heart.'
'But you know what?' He took another pause to wipe his mouth. 'You can always fall back in.'
There it was, the glimmer of hope he was trying to find in her eyes. He wanted to tell her that there were days when he felt like things didn't work out and maybe it was best for them to stay friends, but that's for another day.
'How?' She rose from her seat and tossed their empty plates to the sink. The last thing she wanted to do now was the dishes.
'Write something. Start small. Maybe with, uh, a wedding vow?'
'Oh, come on.' She nudged the man in the stomach and had her first good laugh of the week—and it certainly wouldn't be the last.
It would take her months to make peace with herself, another couple of months to get back on her feet, and years before she realized that she really didn't have to worry.
After all, she could always fall back in.
—end
