After a long hour of therapy, Beck ended up in a quiet bar as she tapped her pen endlessly against the bar’s counter. She stared down at her journal with no intention of trying to figure out what to write.

Only because there was nothing to write about. This was how she was deciding to spend her birthday. Rotting in a bar, trying to write. After a moment, you, the bartender, came up.

“Anything to drink tonight?” you ask and Beck looks up. “Oh. A glass or water will do,” she replies quickly.