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Last night, I was in the mood to write.

It came like an adrenaline rush; I have a new laptop and a fresh, clean Word document staring brightly at me. I was his future, and he was ready to dirty himself silly with my words and my story. And yes, the Word document is a ‘he.’

My fingers were poised over the keyboard. They were itching to get back into that familiar rhythm of 90 words a minute, my mind going on overdrive and the description of something totally random – the usual sun streaming through Monticello bay windows, the grazing of fingers through a mess of sexy, long brown hair – slipping out of me like silk. I was ready to spill out my guts through a heart-wrenching romantic comedy that no one else would really read.

Nothing happened. It was the ultimate anticlimax; Word eventually got bored and he allowed me to leave him. Instead, I glimpsed through stories past – unrequited love, half-developed alternate dimensions, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger on the brink of their unlikely romantic relationship. And I felt awful – because, for some reason, I don’t write anymore.

Writing and I have a very interesting relationship. Sometimes, we spend every day together curled up under the sheets and lost in each other’s dreams of who we are and who we could be. We would have off-days of forcing to make time for each other, knowing that nothing really good could come out of it at that moment in time. Nowadays, he feels that I have neglected him.

I really do not have the heart to say otherwise.

Now, I don’t is very different from I won’t. I will come back to him one day, poised with the mind of a traveler who’s wandered far and wide, all over the world, only to come back home and share his journeys with his lover. I will come back, a small smile curling at my lips, and I will tell him everything. And we will lay in bed, entangled and lost in each other, until we have made something beautiful – short story, novel, whatever.

But for now, I have to bid him goodbye. Writing is my true love, but Law is my mistress.