“Leave.”

 

It’s only one word; don’t stare at me like that.

 

“Go away.”

 

Two words.

 

“I don’t care.”

 

Three.

 

“I don’t want you.”

 

Four.

 

Your eyes… Your lips… Your frown… Your pain… Keep that away from me.

 

“Don’t make me hurt you.”

 

Five.

 

“It’s so easy to hurt you.”

 

Lies.

 

“I’m stronger than you think.”

 

Lies.

 

Your turned back… Your moving legs… Your vacant eyes… Come back.

 

“I’m hurt.”

 

I know.

 

“I need you.”

 

I know.

 

“I can’t forget you.”

 

I know.

 

I put the pen down on the desk losing my power to continue on writing. It took me a while to notice the blue stains on my tousled papers. I wrote for too long without noticing the time that I couldn’t care any less about the mess.

 

Agreeing to write a novel that was based on true events was a mistake. A big mistake especially that the “true events” had to be my true events.

 

I stared at my papers once again, a grimace made its way to my face making me realize how much it all .

 

I sighed throwing my head back against the leather chair.

 

Being a writer is a hard thing to do.

 

You simply start realizing that it isn’t a mere hobby anymore, it’s job that has to be done perfectly and it should suit the tastes of at least 75% of the people.

 

At least that was what my publisher always told me. An old man with a balding head that had been doing his job for too long; a man that his long years of passionate work showed through the wrinkles by his eyes.

 

Back to reality; thinking about my publisher and his belief in my work only made it worse.

 

It hurt writing about my life, not because I had things to hide, but because I wasn’t over anything yet.

 

It was my fault that I had to write about my life, after being a bestseller through my first novel, my publisher had absolute faith in me and my work.

 

Little did he know that my passion left with him. Little did he know that I couldn’t write anymore like before.

 

The only solution was for me to tell him how dramatic my life was with the hopes that maybe, this time I would be able to go back to the top after four failed novels.

 

I eyed my phone feeling the urge to call him to tell him that I couldn’t do it anymore; that I quit.

 

I got up from my seat reaching out lazily to my phone. My chest rested completely against the desk lifelessly grabbing the phone with the tips of my fingers.

 

I stared at the phone between my fingers. I lay on one arm thinking of whether I should really quit. After all, I wasn’t a quitter.

 

Abruptly, I jumped off the desk when my phone started ringing lighting up the semi-dark room.

 

My sudden movement rattled the whole desk making my coffee spray all over the papers that still were thrown carelessly.

 

Curses came out of my mouth filling the room with a sound rarely heard. My phone was still ringing but I was so angry to even deal with it.

 

The ringing stopped for a second to start again. I was too busy trying to save the work of the past five hours totally trying to tune out the annoying noise.

 

Holding the damaged papers, I took them to the kitchen to do something about them later. Returning back to my room, I realized the ringing didn’t stop.

 

Considering my bad temper, it was really getting me angry. I held the phone answering it with hostility and aggressiveness without even looking at the caller’s ID.

 

“What?” I screamed down the line. “If you call once and no one answers that means no one wants to talk to you!”

 

The person on the line remained silent. I was getting even more irritated, just when I was about to open my mouth to yell again, the person spoke.

 

“Really?”

 

One word. It was only one word but that was all it for me to realize who it was.

 

I clutched the phone against my ear as if that would make his voice remain forever.

 

“How have you been?” His voice said again. How could I mistake that raspy voice that always carried so much liveliness?

 

I was speechless. Three years, it took me three years to hear his voice once again.

 

It sounded the same, how could it sound the same? A part of me was hurt that it sounded the same. I was somehow expecting it to remain tingling with pain like the last time I heard it.

 

“Hi.” I stated finding my voice again.

 

“I can tell you still have the same temper? Nothing changed.” He murmured.

 

“What do you know?” I answered him coldly. “Who gave you my number? And why are you contacting me?”

 

“There are no secrets in this world. The only things that remain secret are the things that aren’t tried to be kept as secrets.” He stopped talking letting his words settle in. “Your publisher couldn’t keep your number a secret from me once he heard my name.” He stated.

 

I’m going to have a serious word with that baldhead soon.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“How are you?” He asked again.

 

“You call me after three years to ask me how I've been?” I answer him in shock.

 

“Maybe.” He breathed. “Or maybe I have another reason.”

 

“What is the reason?” I whispered timidly.

 

“I lost my purple pen and I’m sure it was with you.” He said seriously.

 

I gaped at my phone utterly speechless. I removed the phone away from my ear to look at it as if I were judging Hoya instead.

 

“I haven’t seen it.” I lied looking at the pen resting on my desk by the mess from the spilled coffee.

 

I remembered how when he first bought it, he was giddy with happiness. He had that look on his face that always reminded me of the little child in him.

 

“Look what I bought!” He said handing me the pen.

 

I looked at him, “it’s a pen, so what?”

 

“It’s not any pen!” He seemed offended. “It’s a purple pen from the outside that actually has blue ink! Isn’t that cool?” He asked me again.

 

It took me a while to figure out whether I should take him seriously or not. Seeing how he was sliding his fingers on the pen admiring it, I smiled at him.

 

“It’s very cool.” I said back then.

 

Now, the only thing I had left of him was that pen.

 

“But it was with you!” Hoya’s loud voice pulled me back to the present.

 

“Hoya,” I said softly. “It’s been three years. Do you think I’d still have it?”

 

“Yes.” He answered without any hesitation.

 

I smiled to myself remembering his undying trust in me. It seemed he still had it.

 

“I’m sorry that I don’t have it.” I said. “Goodbye.” I almost hung up.

 

“Wait!” He yelled. “Since you lost it, you have to compensate me.”

 

“Take its price from my publisher and I’ll pay him back later.” I answered.

 

“No.” He replied stubbornly. “You have to buy me one, the exact same thing.”

 

“What if I decline?”

 

“I’ll keep on calling you and bothering you.” He said simply.

 

I closed my eyes trying to control my emotions.

 

“No.” I said before I hung up.

 

I immediately turned off my phone knowing he’d keep his promise.

 

It took me a while to realize my heart was beating so fast. I clutched my chest inhaling deep breaths before I broke into a smile.

 

I quickly sat back on my desk, grabbed a few empty papers and started writing again.

 

When it comes to being a writer, you always have the choice of turning your story the way you want it. It might have some truth into it, but it can also have some fiction.

 

Looking at the purple pen between my fingers, the words came out simply.

 

As old fashioned as it seemed writing a novel using a pen, I still did it. Somehow I felt obligated to write our story using the last bit of our memories.

 

“Leave.”

 

It’s only one word; don’t stare at me like that.

 

“I won’t.”

 

Two words.

 

“I love you.”

 

Three.

 

“I love you too.”

 

Four.

 

Your smile… Your words… Your feelings… I want them all.

 

“I won’t ever leave you.”

 

Five.

 

Your hand… Your hug… Your kiss… Stay forever.

 

“This isn’t our end.”

 

Yes.

 

“We won’t ever be away from each other.”

 

Yes.

 

“This isn’t the end.”

 

Never.

 

I looked at the simple sentences I wrote down with tears b in my eyes.

 

Just because I couldn’t have that ending three years back, that didn’t mean I couldn’t have it in my writing.

 

I held the pen close to my chest imagining a different ending; an ending that I longed for instead of my reality.

 

I put the pen back on the newly written ending. I placed the papers in the drawer before I got up again to clean the mess. Trying to retrieve the papers took some work; thankfully they were only ten pages.

 

I rewrote the pages before joining them with my other finished ones. Maybe after all I wouldn’t need to call and quit.

 

I looked at my window to notice the sun rose already. I sighed walking to the bathroom for a quick shower right before going to bed.

 

The life of a writer isn’t busy, no working hours, no getting up early, no getting ready, only due dates that need to be met.

 

 

 

 

Some breakups are a bit too dramatic to be real. Why can’t people just say goodbye casually and remain friends afterwards?

 

The answer is simple. People usually don’t expect breakups to exist…. Sometimes they believe they’ll remain forever with that person. When a breakup occurs, things start seeming different and tough.

 

My breakup with Hoya wasn’t as dramatic as I described it in my novel. There was some truth to most of the things I described like my thoughts and feelings, however, if I really had to go back to that night, I’d live the moments as they really existed.

 

My relationship with Hoya was built on love but not trust on my behalf. At least that was the conclusion I reached whenever I thought about him for the past three years.

 

He was always very protective of me. He always wanted to play the role of the strong, manly, caring boyfriend. Although I told him so many times he had nothing to protect me from, he never seemed to believe me.

 

Probably his deep love for me was what tore us apart.

 

Hoya and I dated for a year and a half without going public. It wasn’t that his job was on the line only, but as a writer, dating rumors would’ve ruined my future.

 

Our relationship started when I was asked to write a song for Infinite and it bloomed after that. Back then, I was writing my first novel and my relationship with Hoya contributed a lot into the feelings and events of my novel.

 

I never understood why Hoya always felt so obligated to protect my career and me more than he wanted to protect his. He worked even harder than me to reach his goal but there he was risking it all for me.

 

His first actions were always concerning me. He always covered my face before he covered his. He always stood in front of me to hide me instead of hiding us both whenever we stumbled across suspicious people on our dates.

 

Throughout the year and half he and I dated, he ended up with so many “scandals” and everyone was speculating who was that faceless girl he always seemed to be with.

 

At first, I thought of his actions as gentlemanly, later on, they got annoying. Couldn’t he trust me of taking care of myself? Why wouldn’t he let me live comfortably without making me feel I was followed all the time? Why didn’t he understand that both of us were in it together?

 

When I finally confronted him and asked him to stop sacrificing his reputation to save mine, he merely shrugged and said he wanted to protect me all the time because with him, I’d always need to be safe.

 

It was the last straw when he had an interview and claimed he was dating a certain foreign singer. I was for sure no singer and he didn’t need to go to that length in order to cover me up.

 

I could take care of myself.

 

That was when it happened. I decided to end it with him.

 

My first word for him was “leave.” I wanted him to take the first step but he never budged.

 

So, I had to be the one to leave him.

 

His last words were “Stop right there! If you take one more step, I can’t protect you.” But I never stopped.

 

Hearing his voice once again after three years brought back all my memories. Once again, my dreams were filled with him.

 

I left him because I couldn’t trust him anymore. He trusted me more than he should have; yet there I was doubting his love for me.

 

Walking into my publisher’s building, my eyes were in red. It had been a week since that call I got from him, unlike his threat, he never called again or stalked me. A betraying part of me hoped he would keep his word, however it seemed he figured a pen wasn’t worth it.

 

Due to my laziness, I wore my shoes without tying the shoelaces. They always annoyed me and every single time I was about to go out, I said I’d get shoes without shoelaces.

 

One time, Hoya was growing tired of my untied shoelaces that he dragged me to a shop and bought me flats.

 

I never wore them after that day; I always wanted to keep them clean.

 

I was quite aware I didn’t look like the professional writer I was. In faded jeans and an oversized hoodie, I looked the part of a careless college girl.

 

I opened the door to the office stifling a yawn in the process.

 

“There you are!” my publisher yelled excitedly. “I believe you have something for me?” his eyes twinkled.

 

“What a way to welcome your favorite writer after five months of disappearance.” I said sarcastically throwing myself on his leather couch.

 

He waved his hand dismissively, “you were working hard, and I didn’t want to disturb you. Now, where’s my masterpiece?” he leaned forward on his desk looking at me expectantly.

 

“I have nothing for you.” I said calmly. “I can’t publish that story.”

 

A deadly smile was still plastered on his face flattering a little. “And why is that?” he said evenly.

 

“That story might be a story I lived, but it’s not my story only. It’s a story of two people and I can’t have my point of view in it only.” I shrugged.

 

“Let me get this straight, you don’t want to publish your story that you lived because you believe it doesn’t have the right point of view?”

 

“Not that only, I can’t live off a story without the consent of the other half.”

 

“So, what do you suggest?” his entwining fingers told me my reply would either let me pay the rent or live on the streets.

 

“How about have another writer? It felt like I was writing an autobiography. What you need for this story is a biography.”

 

“Then writing a freaking biography!” He yelled his smile disappearing.

 

“Give me an extra month, I need to relive the story again… with Hoya.” I looked at him knowing he’d have no choice in it.

 

“Contact him then.”

 

“Oh, I’ll that to you. After all, you’re the one who’s good at finding people.” I gave a knowing look before I got up.

 

“By the way,” I stopped in my tracks. “If you didn’t give him my number, you’d have a fully written novel by now, but as it seems, you always like making things harder on yourself.”

 

It took him less than two hours to arrange an appointment for Hoya and me.

 

I didn’t even attempt to change my clothes or anything; I was meeting him for business only.

 

I walked into the café to find Hoya already sitting at a table. He didn’t look any different, yet he appeared different somehow.

 

He had the same features but he was much more handsome than before. I selfishly stood by the door enjoying looking at him without him knowing.

 

I reached his table just when he looked up from the menu.

 

“Hello.” I mumbled sitting down.

 

“Hi.” He breathed.

 

“Long time no see.” I said not looking at him.

 

“Yeah.” I was aware of his eyes taking me in like I took him in a few seconds ago.

 

“Do you want anything to drink?” I asked getting up from my spot.

 

But instead of replying to me, he was looking at my feet.

 

“When will you ever tie your shoelaces? How many times have I told you untied shoelaces cause accidents?” he said disapprovingly.

 

Before I could say anything, he got up and made me sit in my place. He crouched down on his knees by my worn-out shoes. He started taking off the laces much to my surprise.

 

“Sometimes,” he whispered, “remove things instead of changing them. Change might be too sudden.”

 

“Isn’t removing a form of change?” I responded.

 

“It is, but it’s more subtle and much easier to get used to.” He got up off the floor and handed me my shoelaces.

 

I smiled slowly before taking them from him. Instead he went to get us drinks while I sat at the table.

 

“Let’s get to business.” I said as soon as he sat down.

 

“No “how are you?” or “what were you doing the last three years?”” He asked his eyebrows moving up.

 

“We don’t need to waste time, we have thirty days to go.” I replied stirring my coffee.

 

“Ok, so what now? Your publisher didn’t explain enough.”

 

I took in a deep breath not knowing how to break it to him. “I’m writing a novel about our relationship with different names. I need to hear your side of the story to finish it.”

 

“Why don’t you write it according to your memory?” he asked quizzically. “Or,” he leaned towards me. “Are you not over me yet?” he teased.

 

“I’m so over you!” I said quickly. “I just need a story!”

 

“Maybe you need to know the story.” He sighed. “Maybe what you want is to understand, right?”

 

“Understand what?” I was stalling for more time with him.

 

“Understand how we ended up breaking up because of me.” he shrugged sipping his drink.

 

There was a moment of silence before I responded. “Maybe.” I said.

 

“What do you want to know?” he whispered.

 

“I know it’s been too long already, but you appearing again in my life made me think it over.” I bit my straw distractedly. “Why were you so protective of me? Why didn’t you let me share things with you although I was as responsible as you?”

 

I inhaled another breath. “You know, I sometimes think you were possessive than you were loving. It even led you to lie about a relationship that didn’t exist! You weren’t protecting me, you wanted to own me! please make me understand why?” I begged.

 

“It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you enough to take care of yourself, I just wanted to be the person you run to whenever you felt threatened.” His eyes were fixed above my shoulder. “I wanted to be your everything, and I thought by being your protector, you’d consider me your hero. I thought you’d love me in a different way. I thought by always being there,” his eyes landed on mine, “you’d never leave.”

 

“But I left.” I murmured barely moving my lips.

 

“You did. My fear backfired at me.” His lips twitched. “You didn’t have to go, you could’ve simply tried to make me see why you wouldn’t leave me. Just like your shoelaces, instead of changing everything, you could’ve removed that doubt from me.”

 

“It’s late now, Hoya.” I put my hand on his. “It’s late for the “could’ve”. I only wanted to understand. I only wanted to write our story in a better way. I only wanted to cherish our love that’s gone now.”

 

“You really don’t think of us together again?” his eyes searched mine.

 

I shook my head smiling, “what I believe is that when I took that step and left you, I became a different person. I became a person that you can’t be with.”

 

My hand retreated back to my drink. “I believe that once I moved out of your protection, I changed.”

 

He nodded as if understanding what I was trying to say.

 

“I have to go now finish our story, someone needs to finish it.” I smiled at him widely.

 

I got up from my seat staring at him looking back at me. “Before I forget,” I took out the pen from my pocket, “this is for you.” I put it on the table by his hand.

 

He didn’t move his eyes off it lying there. I leaned down to give him a peck on the cheek before I left the café leaving behind more than a purple pen.