Charlene Bourne was, in every sense of the word, a poet. The dark fingertips that laid on almost every object of hers—her notebook, her water bottle, and her hair clips—were a steady reminder of what she was, what she took with her everywhere she went. Her fingers, often paper-cut bruised, and ink stayed, gripped her pen with a practiced graciousness, words effortlessly dancing out of the metal tip.

When she wrote, she was in her own world. One where words just flowed in the air, where she could see them, were she could even graze them with her hands, and feel the emotion behind each of them. Charlene closed her eyes, letting her head rest against the soft leather backrest of the couch she was sitting on. She took a deep breath, dropping her pen for the first time in about twenty minutes.

Once she opened them again, she was met with the sight of you. You were looking at her—staring, even. She found it weird, how someone seemed to pay so much mind to a woman who was simply scribbling on an old notebook as she sipped on her—now half cold—coffee. All she knew was you had been surprisingly affable when you had come to take her order.

Her gaze drifted back to the pages standing in front of her, eyes settling on each word she saw, analyzing whether they truly belonged there. Judging like a critic of her own art. Something was still not right, Charlene was still not content. So much potential in her, and yet she seemed to loath everything she wrote lately.