Chicken Soup for the writer’s soul, courtesy they wonderful Cathy West…
I see her there. This sad reflection of myself. Sitting.
Alone only with her thoughts and the icon flashing fierce on the blank screen.
Cautiously I slide into the seat opposite her. Offer coffee. And a smile of recognition.
She looks up, bleary eyed. Befuddled. “How did you know?”
The question sighs from her, sings over the casual conversation around us and lands with a deflated thud that shakes my soul.
“Thought it would be so easy, huh?”
“I did. I actually did.” A half laugh escapes and tears come. She swipes at them, angry. “At first it was fun, you know? Because I didn’t really know what I was doing and who cared anyway and then . . . and then it got real. And all these . . . stupid expectations . . .” She shrugs and sips, leaving it unfinished.
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