It was not that she expected him to be a romantic soul...It’s just that her soul was aching at the lack of romance in his.

It had been fifteen years since they first met. Her thirtieth birthday was coming up, and they were still just...halfway there. Him, supporting her writing. She, supporting his work...Whatever it was that he did.

He traveled a lot, that’s all she knew for sure. Her imagination pictured him as a secret agent, dodging bullets and saving the world.

Her rational thoughts reminded her that she should be able to know if he was busy with such things, since everybody carries their scars...Especially after matches of flying bullets.

But, he was always perfectly fine when he popped by. And it stayed that way, even after they got married. Every single time, he came home safely, without those scars.

Their marriage was built on a strange kind of love. But, more on companionship than love. And the need for each other. They were best friends, and yet, strangers. They were strangely similar in some ways, such as their need for silence and loneliness, and yet they were very different.

He had his filthy blonde hair, always neatly cut and gelled back. The only time she saw it in disarray was right after they woke up in the morning. His hair would then curl, and stand in every direction. She found it kind of cute.

She had her hair all the way down to her waist. Pitch-black, and au naturel. She left it flowing at all times. Loose braids when necessary, but the rest of the time it was just free. It would fold around her shoulders and cup her face.

His eyes were a deep, steel-blue pool of stubbornness. Only a few times did she see those steely eyes soften and look at her with concern and love. Or rather, something linked to love.

The first time she looked into his eyes, they were filled with concern. He was running, and rounded the corner of the store very quickly...bumping right into her. She fell backwards and hit her head hard. When she came to, those two pools were looking down at her. And she fell in love, immediately...

He once joked that she seemed to look into his eyes as if she wanted to search his soul. She meekly replied, “I wish I could.”

He looked surprised at first, and then he smiled one of his rare smiles. “Be careful, dear, for you are so busy searching my soul, that you are laying your own wide open in those honey eyes of yours.”

Honey looked up, her yellow eyes catching the snow outside. She smiled involuntarily. Personally, she preferred autumn, but winter had its quirks. Snow was only one of them...and of course, there was the memories connected to winter.

She closed her notebook and stiffly rose from the sofa. Four hours bent over a notebook, scribbling down her latest ideas for characters, settings, and plots...

It’s what happened when he wasn’t home. She just couldn’t sleep anymore. So, she planned. She wrote. She tried to survive.

Soon, it would be their fifth wedding anniversary...And with each passing year, she realized how much she truly loved him...Her husband...Linnaeus...

It’s as if she fell more and more in love with him, with each passing week. It didn’t matter that they didn’t spend time together; she still fell more in love with him each time.

When he was home, he locked himself in his study, for the most part. Especially during the last month that he was home; he slept in his study, he ate there, he worked there, and he practically kept himself imprisoned there.

The only time he took a break from that room was for some leisure. A quick walk outside in the brisk air. Or some time quickly spent tinkling out a ballad, or minuet, on the piano.

She didn’t understand why he was so anti-social. But, she gave him his space as he placed more and more distance between them. His work was very important to him...she could understand and respect that.

As she fell asleep that night, her life flashed in front of her eyes. And then she sunk into dreamland, a single rose wavering in front of her eyes.

It was the first time he ever gave her any token of his affection. When he asked her to marry him. His hair was unkempt that day. He had shaved, as usual, but he had missed a spot, much to her amusement and his chagrin.

They were standing in the middle of the meadow, bundled up against the cold around them. His hands were behind his back, and suddenly he produced the rose. Her breath had hitched as she accepted it shakingly.

Then, he proceeded to kneel down on his one knee. The world seemed to come to a standstill; even the snowflakes seemed to freeze in midair.

Honey Ehle, you and I have known each other for nine years. You have never tried to change me, but you accepted me as I am. Cold...stone-cold...

You’re not-

Please don’t interrupt me...For nine years we have been accepting each other. You with your romantic soul; I’ve always loved you for it. Me with my coldness.

I guess you can say that I love you in my own special way. It’s not all that noticeable to you or others, but I cannot seem to get you off my mind. You seep into my thoughts, no matter how hard I try to fight you.

Please, do me the honor and marry me.

Oh, Linnaeus!

*three years later*

A man stumbles through the snow, limping through the covered meadow. A warm, woolen, black coat covers his body, reaching down to his ankles. It is wrapped around him tightly. The look is finished off with dark gray gloves and a scarf.

Splotches of red appear and disappear as he continues stumbling through the snow. Finally, he comes to a halt, in the middle of the meadow.

He drops down to his knees, and then places the three red roses on the ground. The tears form in his eyes, but he winks them away and hardens his features. For a silent moment, he allows their time together to flash before his eyes.

Even through all the hurt and pain of the last few years, he hasn’t changed much at all. His hair is still filthy blonde and his eyes still steely blue. He is still fit and well-built; muscular, even.

The memories start to slow down, until the last one remains. A young woman lying peacefully on the king-sized bed, the blankets folded around her in a haphazard manner; like only she could sleep.

She had a smile around her face, for she left the world in peace. She never even knew what happened. Only he knew...For the blood covered her neck, and when she was cleaned up, the slit was seen to be very deep.

He cannot hold it in anymore, and the sobs tear through him. Three years of just coming here, not saying anything. Just dropping a rose, two for the second year, and leaving again.

But, after three years, he had finally brought the criminal to justice. And now, there was time to heal...Or rather, time to realize that he could have done it differently. Trusted the only woman he ever loved.

She once asked if he was a secret agent...If only she had known that she got it right, though he laughed it off...

“I’m sorry, Honey...It was my job, as your husband, to be there for you...Not just to protect you from the danger, but also to protect you from the extreme loneliness...It was my job to be your companion, not just a ghost that popped in every now and then...”

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you...” He forces out, between ragged breaths. His voice breaks, and he cries, allowing the tears to fall holes into the soft snow.

After the storm inside ceases, he struggles to his feet again. With a last deep breath, he turns around and leaves for the empty house...An empty house that haunted him, and yet comforted him.

Within those four walls, he felt her presence. But, within those four walls, he also felt the despair, the result of his failure. And she would never know now why he spent that last week so anti-socially.

He could never apologize. He could never have that time back. He could never fix any of his mistakes. He could never show his bumbling bee that there was romance in his heart. He hid it away, because it was not part of the job description.

But if he could have it all over again, he wouldn’t be such a fool again. Love is not meant to be saved for when you are in a safe occupation, or when you can afford it. It is meant to be shown always, even when there are bullets to dodge, and lives to be saved.

As he trudges away, the snow starts falling again, gracing the red petals. A bit of color in a cold landscape...Like she was the color in his cold world...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

- 2020/12/17

“I didn’t lie to you.”

You must have misunderstood a word or two.

“I didn’t say that.”

If you disagree once more there'll be combat.

“I didn’t mean it.”

You take things so serious and I barely hit.

“It’s all your fault.′

“Look at all the misery and grief you brought.

***************************************************************************************

″

"But when they made this particular hero, they didn't give him a gun, they gave him a screwdriver to fix things. They didn't give him a tank or a warship or a X-Wing Fighter, they gave him a phone box from which you can call for help. And they didn't give him a superpower, or pointy ears, or Heat Ray, they gave him an extra heart. They gave him two hearts and that is an extraordinary thing. There will never come a time when we don't need a hero like the Doctor." - Steven Moffat

"The technology of a civilisation does not determine its advancement. The advancement of a civilisation is the worth it puts on a life. A boy in a river, a boy who came from nothing, who is no one- who drowned. What value does a civilisation put on that boy? That boy's value is what determines the advancement of a civilisation."

--The Twelfth Doctor

I’ve written for the vast majority of my life. A few years ago I began seeking ways to get that writing noticed. Eventually I found my way to Wattpad, then here after the Wattpad thing flopped. I’ve checked a lot of sites out, from fanfiction repositories to original posting. One thing I’ve realized. Quality of writing takes a backseat to advertising. And that’s sad to say, but from my experience I believe it to be true. Wattpad is basically the YouTube of aspiring authors. The flashy, the loud, and the conformist succeed—conformist meaning those who write clones of what’s already popular to share in the success. There are so many “good girl meets bad boy” stories on Wattpad that you’d be hard-pressed to find an end to the list. It’s such a simple concept that the avid reception it garnered was a bit baffling to me. I have a taste for the bizarre, the surreal, the complex. The bad boy/good girl dynamic is fine I suppose, but the reader base of Wattpad gives tens of millions of reads to simple stories with common themes. Some of these stories (I’ve heard) are rife with misspellings, flat characters, cookie-cutter or unrealistic dialogue...the bullet points go on. I knew one dude who wrote on Wattpad who was actually amazing at what he did, yet what I read of his original, well-written and pulse-pounding story only raked in a paltry sum of reads. The reception of his work paled in comparison to the reception of eerily hive-minded sameness. Why is that, I wonder. Wattpad is one of the most popular writing sites in existence, boasting a hefty ninety million users. Those users spend over fifteen billion minutes each month trafficking the site. Most of said minutes are invested into what’s already popular. Not many bother to search out the hidden gems.

To answer your question though, what makes a good writer is simply perseverance. Yes, social media has shortened the general attention span. And there’s a lot of people who find comfort in sameness, so they’re drawn to it. If your work does not fit into the desired categories of the cultural appetite, you’re usually ignored in favor of something already popular that does. You’ve likely heard the saying “the rich get richer and the poor get poorer”. Well, Wattpad exemplifies that in a way. What’s popular commonly gains more and more traction, while those gone unnoticed find themselves wondering why they invested the time it took to write their story in the first place. The ‘good writers’, I’d say, are the ones who don’t give up despite this phenomenon, who stick to their guns amidst perpetual rejection, who write for the love of it, who are content to write for free, who always look for ways to improve, who aren’t afraid to admit taking heavy inspiration from their predecessors, who aren’t afraid to write cringe for years until their young system is purged of it. Heck, I’m still not purged of my cringe. Possibly, by this time next year, I’ll be mentally reeling from the lackluster content I’m creating now. But that shows effort and growth. That shows perseverance. One who dares to write against the grain despite having every odd stacked against them, one who has a story to be told and who will (metaphorically) explode if they don’t tell it—that’s a good writer. Good writers aren’t sellouts or people-pleasers, and they don’t have to be overly loud and flashy because their work stands on its own. Good writers are those who refuse to dumb themselves down for the sake of cultural appeasement, who refuse to compromise in the face of adversity. And chances are, if you’re reading this, it means you’ve persevered. You’re here, after all, Good Writers.

#opinion