“Why do you never write about me?” I asked him one time while he was writing.
He looked at me and sighed, “You write about me.”
“Yes, I write about you.” I said back in a matter-of-factly tone.
He smiled sadly, shaking his head. “I never write about the things I already had. I write about the things I never had, or will never have. You know how we, writers, usually do that.” He looked at me, eyebrows raised, as if daring me to say something. “I never write about things I’ll make sure to keep, forever.”
He stood from where he was sitting, “And you, I will make sure to make you mine, and keep you mine, I will make sure not to lose you so I would never see the day that my heart needs to bleed the pain into words from not having you in my life.”
He cupped my face in his hands. “I will never write about you. You are mine.”
//excerpt from a book i’ll never write #18