As soon as I opened the door, the air tasted different. I bit my lip and stepped into kitchen, listening for any sound besides my soft-soled shoes stepping carefully into my own home as if I were an intruder. No sounds greeted my straining ears. I glanced around the room. Everything looked as it always did except for a single sheet of my expensive writing paper in the middle of the table.
I gasped. My right hand flew to cover my mouth. Blood rushed to create thunder in my ears. Despite these signs of shock and fear, my foolish feet carried me to the table. My left hand cowered to curiosity and reached out to bring the page to my face.
“Dear Bella,
“I know you thought this was working out, but it wasn’t working for me. You leave me home alone most days. Then you return and barely give me a glance. It feels like you just keep me around for a someday that is never coming. So I am gone. Don’t look for me. I am hoping to be found by a real writer who can’t spend a day without me.
“Yours,
“The Desk”
Tears coursed down my cheeks at the truth in those words. But I had to see it for myself. I slipped off my shoes and padded softly to my bedroom. As promised, an empty spot greeted me where my desk once sat. A few stray pieces of paper and two cats rested in their newly vacated nap spot.
“No,” I mumbled, vowing silently to write more.
~~~
Seems a little autobiographical, doesn’t it?
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