Eva was a soft-heart, or as others said, a bleeding heart. Sometimes she became so drawn into herself she bled onto others. Making them just as miserable. It wasn't her fault she wasn't taught to be self-aware or to control what she said. By the next day, she would always ramble apologies in shame because of her sorrows. A sorrow so large it took up a chunk of her mind and heart. It made it hard to love people, to allow people to be close.

Her pencil tap-tap-tapped against the desk. An unwritten script in front of her. She wasn't sure how to direct the plot, only that it needed to be inventive. Or creative. "Any ideas?" She asked you, glancing over.