I told her that I didn’t want to do it my whole life.
I told her that I wanted to try writing at some point in my life.
The feint, dim, yellow light shone over the table.
It was an exact replication of the light that sat on my desk. Its shade was a mix between brown and maroon.
It was almost a clay color.
But as we sat there, her eyes looking back into mine, it was almost as if I had no fear in admitting I went wrong somewhere in my life path.
I had no fear in saying that what I was doing was just filler.
I wanted to write.