Words always get caught in his throat, trapped by hesitance and insecurity. From a stuttering child to a deathly quiet adult, a plethora of words get lost in between. It wouldn't have made a difference anyway, he would tell himself in moments of regret, because what good would a few words have done to reverse the ruin his life had inevitably crumbled into.

And that's what he tells himself through heartache, frustration, and loathing. Year by year, it's validity starts to fade, revealing the holes burnt into his life. When he meets her, words pour in an endless stream from the fountain of his mind—it's euphoric, liberating, and a cruel reminder that they would never go beyond the confines of his journal.

Just ink on a blank page.