Zara stared at the white page. It could've passed for the shroud over a dead body. Sighing, she relented, snapping the book shut.

"Why?" she shouted as her mother looked at her worriedly.

"Zara?"

"Sorry."

"What's wrong?" her mother asked, wiping her stained hands on a piece of rag.

"I...can't write. It's frustrating," she clenched her hands. She wanted to write, put words on that page, see the black ink morph into stories, but, even as the ink waited to fall, nothing came out. Even the ink huffed at her lack of skills.

"I've never written," her mother said but continued on. "But, I know the feeling of wanting to do something and not being able to. Why don't you give it a rest?"

"I...can't. I just wanna write," she looked down.

Laila remained silent as she watched her daughter and then went back to the kitchen.

"Have you decided what field you want to specialize in?" asked her aunt.

"I..." she struggled. "I don't want to be a doctor. A writer. That's what I want."

The words came out, like a big wave and lulled against the shore of her lips. Now, they had no intention of going back.

Her aunt's eyes widened. "Laila, is she speaking sense or not?"

Laila came out, looking at her daughter. "It's hard, Zara, you know..."

"I don't care!" she stepped out, slamming the door.

"Does she have any manners?"

Zara phoned her best friend. "Can we have coffee?" She felt her fingers graze the leather cover of her notebook which was supposed to have ideas.

She saw him come in black jeans as she walked with him to Starbucks.

"What's wrong? It's so early in the morning and while you may get up, I don't," he rubbed his eyes sleepily.

Aziz looked at her, watching the ebbing anger as doubt replaced in her eyes.

Zara remained silent and then spoke. "Let's have coffee."

"I understood that," he said, frowning. "But..."

"I can' write! And it's driving me crazy!"

He put a hand on her shoulders. "Calm down. Okay. Ah, happy birthday!"

Zara stopped. "What's the date?"

"You forgot?" he asked, laughing as he pulled a small red and brown leather bound notebook from his pocket. "You told me you loved writing, so I got you this, but now..."

She took it, inhaling the scent. "God. This is amazing."

They entered the cafe, a wave of cold hitting them. "So, what did you want to write about?"

"I don't know," she sighed, placing the book at the table. "I just want to form words so...exquisite."

Zara could imagine her book with whatever name it was supposed to have pitching sales and her bold photo on the front page of the newspaper. But, what she wanted was magic.

He ordered two lattes, knowing it'd be what she preferred. He noticed the steam from the coffee as she set it nearby.

"I don't know. If I gave you a topic, would you be able to write?"

Zara hadn't listened, she was looking somewhere faraway. "And do you know what she said? Writer? Is she talking sense? I am sick of her."

"She's at your house?" he asked, sipping his coffee.

"Yeah, the...her audacity! Who is she to tell me?" her hands flew about and the latte spilled over at her gift. Her eyes widened, as she got up so that it wouldn't fall on her lap. "Aziz, I am so sorry....so sorry...I didn't mean to..."

She looked sadly at the brown stained pages as a tear fell. "I...sorry."

She looked at it, at the swirls of coffee which were spreading. Like a ghost. Or more specifically, like a witch raising her hands to entice something. She stared at it. Aziz looked at the book and her expression. The book had cost much and he was irked at first. But, then, seeing her cry... Now, he couldn't fathom it.

"What?"

She gingerly picked it up, blinking. "I see...stories. She stood there, taking her black ink pen out and scribbled on the stained pages. Words came when she saw the witch. More so, when she saw them morph.

As she stopped, a bit breathless she looked at the remaining coffee, and let the dripping coffee fall on the book as Aziz gaped. "Zara? Are you okay?"

"Huh?" she looked at him blankly. And then she grinned. "Aziz, this is the best gift ever."

She ran over, hugging him as her weight pushed him and his chair backwards, and he returned it. "Story came when coffee spilled?"

"Yup," she said, looking into his green eyes. "I'll pay."

He looked back, into her lucid, bright fiery dark eyes as he saw happiness and fire mixed in it. Fire swirled so deep as blazing words were thrown about.

She backed, looking lovingly at the book. Every day, she made coffee.

~

"What are you doing, Zara?" asked Laila, as she saw her daughter spill coffee.

"I am...writing. Spilling. The ideas come from there."

It always did. It didn't matter to her that a five dollar coffee was lost that day or now. If it made the fire in her burn like a thousand stars colliding into one, five dollars was worth it.

Not to them, though.

"Zara! It's expensive, you know, coffee?" Laila stopped Zara's hand from spilling it over.

"Mom..." she forced out. "I want to write."

"On the expense of what we work so hard to earn?" her eyes cut through Zara's stubbornness. "No. Plainly, no."

Zara looked torn as she nodded, removing her wrist from the grip. "I am gonna see Aziz."

~

"I see," he nodded, looking at the table, his sandwich untouched.

"What on earth am I going to do?" she tugged her hair. "I just found them and well, now they're gone."

"How about the stories every nook and corner tells?" he asked, looking at her. "Look around, Zara."

Zara did and she found the hurried waitress serving food as someone else took orders. In the far side, where the kitchen door was slightly ajar, she saw chefs moving about in grace.

"I...don't see anything special."

"You don't see the frenzy of those who work here? Or, what about the scent of the food? The coffee? And the lady who protects her child in the pram outside? What about that teenager lost in the world? In himself? And someone else practising for a marathon? Them?" Aziz gestured everywhere.

Zara stared all around mutely.

"Recently, I found something. Come on," he said, as they walked outside. "I wanted to show you the trees."

When Zara simply looked at them swaying, she couldn't see much. As she kept looking, the shapes turned to stories. Where the winds whispered them and the flames were fairies who were trying to pull their hair out from the wick of a candle. Where the mermaids churned the oceans and added spices of fear, seaweeds dashed with a bit of salt and tanginess. And the stories were magic, yearning for the mundane to realise that magic was what we created with our eyes in our souls.

"I think...I found it."

"Hmm?" Aziz mused, smiling at her confused euphoria.

"We need to become the words. When that happens, the ink will create a masterpiece."

*****

Here's my entry for ChickLit contest- finding your muse.