She contentiously typed away, her fingers only stopping when she needed to stretch. Her dark rimmed glasses reflected her computer screen that reflected her writing. She wrote about a man who had survived the war and then proceeded to go home and enter his new war. The war for the love of his life. So once again, she was creating a story about love and tragedy.

Influenced by the Korean Dramas, the Spanish poems, and the soap-operas she had seen over the course of her life, she was inspired to write some herself. From a young age, she dreamed about having a young and handsome man come into her life to change it. She dreamt about the first look, the first kiss, and the challenged they would have to face for their love.

She use to think that fiction was reality, ignoring the whole definition of what fiction actually meant. It wasn't until one day when a young man stumbled upon her life, she at first thought of it as pleasant. His shyness, his hesitation towards her. But when the time came for him to ask her the important question, she resulted in boredom.

She was waiting for that epic first look, for that first magical kiss, and the difficulty. When she saw how easily and simple things were, she grew tired of the kiss, she grew tired of the looks, and she got tired of waiting for the fight that would unite them together.

So as she typed away her love story that she had created within her heart, she stopped and sat back. She looked up at he ceiling, a tear rolled to the side of her face. And then she began to flood the river that was only allowed the maximum five tears.

“Is there something wrong with me?” She asked herself through the sadness that poured out of her body.

When was this story suppose to happen? Why was it that at some points she wanted someone in her life, and at other times to be left alone? Why was she like this?

She let the last tears stain her shirt, she wiped the remaining off her face, and started to type her finishing statements on her love story.

“Tomorrow is a new day.” She tried comforting herself before publishing her story.
She then got up and read her poetry that consisted of, you guessed it, Love.