Irene sat on the leather couch and smoothed out the wrinkles on her skirt for the 13th time since she entered her new apartment. 

Her new apartment....with the sniveling little snot ball that insulted her writing at her book signing.

She gritted her teeth and was trying to figure out how to process the information she was just given by Henry over the phone.

"Why is there someone in the apartment, Henry?!" Irene asked angrily.

"Irene...were you not listening when we signed the contract for the apartment? The landlord said we were able to get this nice of apartment for half the price."

"I can't just live in a different apartment?"

"President Sooman instructed to limit the apartment cost. This is the most sought out apartment complex in the area."

"Okay....isn't there any way to change the..." She snuck a peek at the brunette who was sipping on her mug. "The roommate." She whispered into the phone. 

"Irene. Please...I'm already stacked with so much work. Please just...bear with this for a couple of months. I'll do my best to help you move afterwards."

Before Irene could complain even more, Henry ended the phone call. 

Irene muttered curses under her breath and whisked around to face the brunette sitting on the other sofa. 

"Listen, just because I'm going to be living here from now on, does not mean I have to acknowledge your existence."

The brunette shrugged and nodded, not showing much care to the blunt statement made towards her. 

Irene rolled her luggage into the empty bedroom on opposite side of the brunette's bedroom. She shut the door behind her and sprawled out on the soft bed before her. 

She pulled out her phone and called Wendy.

"Hey queen. Did you move in yet?"

"Yeah." Irene mumbled dejectedly

"What's wrong? Don't you like it?"

"The apartment...it's bearable. Tacky, but bearable. But that's not what I'm upset about."

"What are you upset about then?"

"I've got a roommate...and its the girl who told me to stop writing."

Wendy burst into laughter.

"Wendy! This is not a laughing matter!"

"I'm sorry...but this is just too good."

"Wendy! What if she like....murders me or something?" 

"Please Rene. Relax. She probably just doesn't like your books. I doubt she wants to kill you."

"Ugh...fine. You and your level headed logic."

“Shouldn’t you be worrying about your book, rather than complain about someone not liking your writing?” Wendy giggled.

“I AM worrying about my book. In fact, I’m working on it right now!” She lied.

“Okay sweethearttt….Work on your book. Call me if you need anything!” Wendy cheerfully said.

She ended her phone call with Wendy and pulled out her laptop from her bag. She was determined to write as fast as she can, so move out day would come a lot faster. 

What should the main idea be? Well....obviously romance. Her target market: women, practically drooled for her books. Her past four books had been strictly about love, romance, and innocence. They were all written during the time she was dating Suho, and it was obvious that her relationship affected her writing. All four of those books were...the types of books people thirsted for when they lacked a certain kind of romance in their life. Much like the success of "Fifty shades of Grey”, except her books were....PG-13.

She wasn't even sure how she was going to push out another love story when she couldn't even process the idea of love herself right now. A few people had suggested that she try dating again, in order to rekindle that inspiration. But she knew it was pointless. She tried dating this picture perfect guy, a year after her break up with Suho, and she was still staring at blank pages every day. 

She stared out the window of her room and smiled a tiny bit. She was thankful for the view at least. She remembered her days in college when she would write vigorously under a table lamp. She was full of inspiration back then. The old Irene used to hand in her assignments late because she was too focused on her own writing. 

She didn't have many friends and only spent time with Wendy, her classmates, and her books. Irene was a hell of a bookworm. Genres were nothing but a label for all sorts of wonderful books waiting to be read. Even dur