RIVER MET YOU through a mutual friend, and was fortunate enough to come across to someone as talented as you. You were a shy person, and couldn't an initiate a conversation by yourself. That's where your friend had came in, introducing you to him at a party during a cold night in Los Angeles.

"This really isn't my scene. I came because Trinity wanted me here." You quietly tell River, you're siting close to him on the old burgundy love-seat. His thigh was basically touching yours, but it didn't bother him—the closeness—that is.

"Yeah, parties aren't really my scene either sometimes." River replies, noticing you're still looking down at the floor, fidgeting with the ring on your finger. You aren't married, the ring is on your index finger. River finds the information reassuring.

"I like writing stories, sometimes horror, sometimes the tragic romance, or something goofy. Writing is my escape." You revealed, looking at him directly for the first time.

This had truly caught River's interest, "Really? That's amazing. I enjoy writing music."

"That's amazing, River. I would like to hear you sometime with your band." You tell him, beginning to warm up to his comforting presence.

He smiles, "Only if you let me read your stories first."

He did end up reading your stories, both the rough drafts, and the final versions. River became so absorbed into the worlds you created from the tips of your fingers, and he thought you were talented. River wasn't a huge fan of horror yet he loved the story you wrote about vampires.

The more he learned about you, the more he felt inspired by you and the stamp you made in this world with your characters. He just wished you would see it too, how much your writing matters.

He finds you one day, laying on the cold hardwood floors of your studio. It seemed as if you stared at nothing, and papers surrounded you. Your door had happened to be unlocked, which was concerning. It raised a red flag for River, and after a few knocks, he walked in.

"[Name]?" He softly calls your name, kneeling down beside you. Then he notices the fresh tears still running down your face, and how flushed you were. It physically pained him to see you this way.

"[Name], what's wrong?" River questions, feeling concerned, why were you so heartbroken?

"It's not enough." You vaguely croak out, breaking down into more heavy sobs, curling into a ball.

"Sunshine, what's not enough?" River asks, feeling so distraught over your misery, trying to pull you up into a hug.

"Me," You cried out, "I will never be enough."

River felt insulted, who would had placed such a vile image into your head? He places his hands on your shoulders as you sat up, the tears still going on strong.

"You're more than enough, you're amazing. I love you." River confesses, realizing perhaps his impulsive confession was ill-timed.

"They don't think so. My class, my creative writing class at my university? No, there's always this one girl, who's always conjuring up the attention. I just don't understand it, and I hate her for it. She's such a cruel person, yet she can bathe in the compliments she gets. I just want to have the love and admiration she gets." You rambled out so fast, River missed the name of the girl. It didn't matter though, what mattered was you.

"Baby, you can't do this to yourself. You need to stop beating yourself up over these people, and over this girl. I know you're talented, you've inspired me so many times." River says, wrapping his arms around you, giving a strong hug.

'It's not enough.' Is all you can think, wrapping your arms around him too.

You don't think River understands, or if anyone truly does. You knew it was vile, to be such a jealous person. But outside of River, and perhaps your mutual friend with him, you didn't have much going for you. Writing was important because it was all you had and you poured your soul into.

So, for people to openly choose that girl's writing over yours was devastating. It felt none of you, even your damn soul, was worthy enough for love and admiration. And until she disappeared from your life, you began to believe you'd always feel this way about yourself. But of course, what does River know?

He has friends, he has a family, a band, and fans to admire his work. You? You're just a broke college student, barely making it through life. If writing was enough, than was it really worth going on with everything? No, it wasn't.

"I'm sorry I'm like this, River." You whisper to him, your voice faint and hoarse from the waterworks show you performed.

"There's nothing for you to be sorry for, [Name]. I wish people loved you and your stories as much as I do." River mumbles back, feeling so hopeless.

"I wished too. But life isn't fair, huh?" You bitterly chuckle out, and it makes him want to cry. It's just seems so tragic, the way you feel so far into this abyss of insecurity.

"No, it's not fair." He answers back in agreement, wondering if you'd ever get your big break.

"The next story I write will be a tragedy. I hope it'll help me cope better with whatever I'm feeling." You inform him, breaking the hug from the dark blonde. You noted his hair always varied between shades of blonde, and decided he be a perfect protagonist.

"I'm excited, [Name]." River comments, glad you weren't going to stop writing, despite the heavy insecurity that laced your heart.

"It'll be called Anamnesis—the story."

"I love it, [Name]." River says, smiling, the name sounded beautiful, just like you.

Anamnesis meant remembering things from a supposed previous existence. The book was about a boy named Jude who transfers into a new school, and meets a girl named Miu. Jude himself in a mystery, surrounding both Miu and the gruesome fatalities of their classmates.

It was the first and only book that was published by [Name]. It was a bestseller, but she stopped writing after the death of River.

Sometimes, people would ask her, "Why did you stop?"

She'd simply reply, "It's hard to write when you're only fan is gone."

It's rumored she has a trunk filled of unpublished books, never to be seen, written for a her late muse.

Life isn't fair, isn't it? That's what [Name] had learned long ago, especially after her only muse left her alone in the rough world. She'd only ever write for him.

•••
This was intended to be a gif imagine but spiraled into an imagine. How the reader feels is how I feel, so this was written as a sort of coping mechanism. The novel [Name] writes was based off Anamnesis by Annabel and the novel Another by Yukito Ayatsuji. I apologize for any grammar, spelling, and punctuation errors.