I was in the corner of a tea shop when a lady around my age asked permission to share my space, wordlessly giving up her table for a couple that just came in. Smiling, I motioned for her to take the seat beside me before getting back to my work, tuning everyone out with soft acoustic music.
After a few minutes, I raised my head to blink away the glare of the monitor. My attention drifted to the lady beside me, her back hunched to the table, her long hair a curtain to block out the ceaseless chattering around her. She didn't seem to have any earphones on, but she was effective in ignoring her surroundings, her intense gaze focused on the notebook in front of her, her right hand a steady source of motion that shattered the impression of an author's tableau.
Just a girl, a pen and an old brown notebook.
I looked down to the organized chaos strewn on my side of the table. A laptop in front of me, a WiFi stick, a tablet, a cellphone. Two notebooks, two pens, a small pad of paper. A bundle of printed material with a ton of notations.
I sit back, turning my head to the view outside the window. But I wasn't seeing the cars pass by, nor was I watching the people walking on the sidewalk.
No, my mind was seared with a picture of two girls by the glass window of a tea shop, one an image of unexplained exhaustion, the other an embodiment of a steady stream of consciousness. A girl frowning as she tried to make sense of something on her computer, and another girl relaxed and meditative in her composition. One forcing herself to write, the other effortless in letting her hand do the work.
The duality struck me hard as I wondered when I have transformed from the girl beside me to the girl occupying my chair. Words used to flow freely in my veins, and all I had to do was bleed them out with a pen. Now I find myself in a constant struggle to put my thoughts on paper.
In my mind, I was standing across the street, staring at the two girls, a resonance of a sad, melancholic echo reverberating within. An impression of a stillness that masked a soul grieving for what once was. An unseen image whispering a tiny prayer to the heavens for a child to awaken from a very deep slumber.
As my phone beeped its incessant reminder to get my bearings and resume my work, I saw her hands close the notebook and gather her things. Deactivating my alarm, I looked up as the girl stood up and faced me. Thank you, she said quietly.
Nodding at her with a small smile, I allowed my gaze to drop, but not without a final look at the girl's notebook.
An unspoken promise lingered in the air.
No, I whispered silently as she walked away and left the store.
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