Although Amy lives alone and is rarely home at day, she always mutters “I’m home” every time she gets back to her place. Living her dull life as an architect college student, she spends most of her time in her studio rather than her flat. She always has her sketchbook around her and often sketches for fun for her leisure time but never shows it to anyone, ever. She likes drawing but she hates getting attention because of her drawings. Therefore, what would she do is to post her drawings online, in an anonymous account of course, with no obvious credits but the trying-to-be-mysterious-signature, Dearly Loved. Understandably, her posts have never reached anywhere near five likes. Although she’s actually curious, like from where those five people find her page. It does not matter for her anyway. Sometimes, one of them constantly leaves a boosting comment about her sketch. She kinda likes it because it revolves on her sketch and her sketch only. Those five people don’t know who Amy is. Or, she thinks so.
On one rainy evening, she decides to spend her day outside; goes to a newly opened cafe shop down the road just to sketch the buildings over a cup of chamomile tea, buys flowers, visits museum. The cup has emptied and she’s about to leave. So, she packs her things up, stands up and as she turns around, she accidentally bumps into someone in all-black. When she intends to apologize, she notices something about his jacket. She pauses for minutes before her eyes widen as she mumbles an apology quickly then avoiding his eyes. What the hell? That is definitely not what I think it is. She mutters. She tries her best not to look back at where he stands but fails miserably. Their eyes intersect for two seconds and while they’re at it, she fails to feel her heartbeat for the exact amount of second.
Coming home late, she immediately runs herself to the bathroom for 20 minutes and guides her steps to the living room. As she continues with her sketch, she finds herself holding an already-opened beer can in her other hand when in fact, she doesn’t even drink beer. She soon straightens her back to skim her surroundings, glares nervously. Unfinished sandwich on the table, uncertain muddy boot marks on the ground, and a smell of tobacco suffocates the room. Quietly, she leads herself to the closet and tries her best not to make any slightest sound possible to check it in hurry and locks herself there. The first five minutes, she assumes, was nothing. The next six, she hears footsteps. She holds her breath, quivering. Another footstep but this time with the clacking sound follows after. There is no gap at all for her to move or to peek beyond the closet. She’s stuck.
“I’m sorry, Dear. I just want to return your jacket. I didn’t have mine with me so I borrowed yours.”
“You must’ve taken aback by this. I am sorry.” The voice continues. It mutters shitimsotupidimsostupidshitshit the next minute.
“I thought you wouldn’t come home earlier than usual.” He cries until the night ends with no single words came out of their mouths.
Word Count: 535.
The photo was taken from https://id.pinterest.com/pin/90283167512461202/