Write. Revision. Edit. Write. Keep going, I think to myself as I heavily sigh. I have been left to my own devices for far too long. I just know it. But I have to do something else, anything else then think of him. I peer down at my empty coffee cup and lean my head back to glaze up at the ceiling with its dozens of holes. Running my hands through my hair, What has become of my life? When did everything become like this?

 Biting down on my lip, I look at the Word Doc page. I pause, Okay, so I have suffered from writer's block. So I haven't written in months. But I have something for the publisher to take, even if it is something from high school.

The rain murmurers outside my windows with the dim sunlight barely greeting the room. I returned my sights on the dozens of holes. My sweater hardly gives me any comfort in the damp room.  My hands rest on my wooden table as the droplet from above falls down. 

I can go a go on, I rub my hands together and inch away from the dripping water. I get up and place a bowl under the drip. Quietly I turn back to waiting laptop, I only sold John on this story because I thought I don't know. I just needed a story.

 I pace about my holey apartment. The place is a regular Ikea catalog with neat and tidy stuffs here and there. But it doesn't matter that the whole place still looks like it belongs to a college kid. It is ours, well more like it is mine now. It has been this way for months now. I really need to leave behind with the lease almost over and money taking a turn for the better.

I turn about on my heel and place my hands on the back of my head. I can see the whole layout of bedroom studio with small kitchen. The small knickknacks from my travels out from all over the states crowd the shelves. More disheartening for me are Boris's things. There are small traces of him still lingering about with his postcards he sent me on the whiteboard. At least I took down his photos already and packed them into a wooden box. I had managed to pack up his clothing and shoes. But it has been a long process going through his affairs.

I am so tired, I rub eyes as spy the calendar. It is marked for Monday Rose, Boris's mother, will come and pick up the last of  his things.  It will only be the second time I get to meet her. On the phone, neither of us have had the heart to discuss what to do with his stuff. Rose felt it is right she took them all away in person. 

I take another deep breath and shake my head, How much did that plane ticket cost? And what a way to meet the woman for the second time. I never wanted to meet her like this. I always hoped I would meet Rose Webster under a better situation.

I sit down and  lean back the chair and stare up at the holes in the ceiling. I count the patches on the ceiling and curse the darn landlord for their lousy maintenance. They said they would only have the holes patched and done over three months ago and new electric wires. Still here are my friends the holes are on the ceiling. The ones on the walls are hidden by the drawings I made in my spare times. Back the windows, my plants have wilted to limp things, I ought to remember to water them.

The plants are not going to water themselves. I continue passed the little clock that is heart shaped as it ticks. I close my eyes as I reach over to the kitchen. Empty cat blows sit by the kitchen sink floor. My sweet Winery is still off at Nadia's home. I know I could ignore the plants, but Winery had to be somewhere else with all the construction and now.

I grab the pitcher and gather the water for the plants and head back to them. I water them somberly and mutter, "I am sorry about not getting back to you sooner. I have been all out of sorts. . . I bet I could get Pedro to watch over you instead. He would have you back to full health in no time."

The limp leaves perk up in slowly. I restlessly put down the pitcher and good back toward the desk. My cell is still dead quiet. Not from lack of people trying to reach me, but I don't have the heart to answer just yet. Tonight, for sure I to talk with everyone. I turn the white roses with the black ribbon from our -I mean- my friends over at the game shop. Not to forget the pile of letters and cards from other family and friends. I quietly stand before the desk and touch the cell. The front screen of the universe pops up and reads it is well pass two. I ought to get something to eat and drink.

I grab my bag and scoop the laptop into it. I might try and write the thing over there. I take my old high school binder with the story. I know I promised I would rewrite the thing. I would have to my writing has changed so much from my writing now. I place it in next to the laptop and zip it shut. I scan the tiny studio with its holes and cheerful drawings on it. Heck, the stars that glow in the dark and still hanging by the bed.

I will call Isabella to help me take them down later. My sister has offered me several times to take care of it. My lease will be over in one week. I guess then I can leave this tiny place behind. For now, it is like it is waiting for Boris to come back in. His favorite cup is still clean and fresh by his chair. His half-finished knitting projects are by the basket. His pile of books to read are next to the bed. Waiting and waiting for someone who is not coming back.

I hold my breath. Rose will be here on Monday to finally take it all away. Isabella and I can start packing my own belongings then. My ticket home to our parents has been sitting next to the calendar. I know I can cut the lease short and head back sooner. But there are a few things left in Stormlight I need to finish. I need to finish them for myself and Boris. (Boris was never good at finishing things.) I finally exhale as open up the blinds more for the plants. Just a little longer in this limbo of things. Just a little more time in the place I last saw Boris. It may smell stale here and it may be small. But this is where Boris was last alive. . . That's right . . . The ceremony will on Tuesday. Isabella and John will go with me to see Rose at it.

I turn on my heel and grab my shoes from the shoe rack. Never had a shoe rack before Boris. I shake my head and slip them on with my house keys at hand. I will be able to think again at my favorite tea house. (Boris had stop liking tea two years after we dated, even if our first dates were all about tea. So, the tea house I like would be free of his shadow.) I lock up the empty house and walk on to the main road.

There my favorite sanctuary sits on the horizon. The White Rabbit brightly with oranges and splashes of white happily glows in the afternoon sun. I stride over and enter the door with a jingle. My favorite server is in Doran with his crisp ivory shirt and tan apron. He beams at me as I walk on in, "Mx. Nel, welcome back. What can I get you today?"

I skim over the listings of tea, "Could I please a Jasmine Green tea?"

"No problem, Mx. Nel. You go have a seat and I will get it right to you," He grins.

"Thanks, Doran," I nod and head over to my usual spot.

Ah, the White Rabbit, a nice enough place with an Alice in Wonderland theme. There are small playing cards by the logo of the shop of a rabbit. Of course, the table has to have fresh flowers on each one of them. No roses here at this time of year, more of lavenders and lilies. I sink into the table near the window and looking over at downtown area. All the historical Victorians have never lost their charm even nowadays. The ocean crashes against the shoreline. It is quiet this time of day. Everyone else with a regular job is off at their work place. I slump into the table with my folder the story next to me. The paper is all off white now and the pages curled. I thumb it with some thought. Okay, so the original is a love story about an herbalist and a spirit. Normal teenage literature. Why, did I choose it?

I suppose I thought I could make it into a good action adventure of some kind. Get rid of the whole romance angle. I mean what did I know about romance in high school. It is all giddy and idealistic. Not just in it that would say that anyone would really grab onto. Whelp, I need a draft and I need it now. So I suppose whatever I come up with now will be as good as anything. I just need to make it sound good. I mean John manage to support my idea. I just need to get it all together. How hard could that be? John liked the idea. I just need the publishing house to continue to back it.

I reopen the laptop and watch it flicker to life. Doran with his rich blonde hair and cheerful little step comes by and drops off the steaming cup. It is in a cute cup with a hidden cat inside of it. I nod to him just as he puts down a BLT sandwich next to the cup. I pause and grimly grin at him. Doran smiles, "I wanted to take a wild guess and say you forgot to eat again today."

"I guess I did Doran. . . Thanks. . . I-"

"Nel, don't worry about it. I got your back. You have been one of our best customers. We know how to take care of you. Right Margit?" He laughs.

"We sure do!" Margit with her rough voice chuckles from the back kitchen.

I quietly nod as Doran drifts off to help another customer. He could also float with how light he is on his feet. I hold the warmth of the cup in my hands. I stare at the screen again and where all the rewrite has been locked. I hold the original in my hands. This is something I can and need to finish. I think I know where I need to begin.