And she takes another piece of paper.

The reply must be perfect, that is the only fact she knows. She doubts the words which are coming from her mind, and that she lays on the white paper. The ink at times smudges, and at other times hurts the grain of the surface. It irritates her, so does the flow of her thoughts which she judges inaccurate. Obsessed, yet deceived, she keeps on trying. Days and nights for a good number of days she has been trying to compose the answer to a note her no longer lover wrote to her.

And she takes another piece of paper.

She threw away the previous one, and at the same time she washed away a teardrop which had started to fall off from her right eye. Exhausted, she hasn’t slept for days. How could she? Her thoughts, unrelentingly, will not leave her alone until she is done writing up the reply.

At first, she thought this note was bearing good news. A marriage proposal or an invitation to live together, she dreamed awaked and fantasised wildly. Until she was forced to face reality and the truth: he was proposing and inviting to live together, just not to her.

And she takes another piece of paper.

Her heart stopped beating, she was going to faint, but the words held her alive. These cruel black words which were stomping on the white innocent paper, calling for revolt and sadness. She will reply, because words are her world, not his. With a quiet tone and a strong handwriting, she intends to hurt back. The sentences will bounce back from her soul, the home of her anger, and hit his eyes hard, triggering a crying river. Determined to translate her pain, she will love him until she decides it is enough to do so.

And she takes another piece of paper.