NEATLY FOLDED HANDS REST in the femaleâs lap as she eyes the man who speaks, with scepticism coloring youthful features. perhaps, she thinks about it now, her father has been right all along when he has proclaimed that his oldest and only daughter is a little too untrusting, always filled to the brim with suspicions that make no real sense to the elderly man, however often she tries to explain her intentions to him.
sieun, you have to stop fearing for the worst in people to come out. sieun, you cannot let one bad example influence the rest of your life. sieun, do not condemn all for one personâs mistake  arenât you better than that?
âyou think thatâd be a good theme? it sounds like something soâŚâ sad? bittersweet? tragic?the female keeps these thoughts to herself, unwilling to share such a personal opinion with a stranger, however helpful he appears to be. though a fellow writer, from what she has gathered, thereâs an unique aura he possesses, one which proves to be intimidating enough for sieun to recoil, to keep to herself, to avoid unnecessary chatter. it isnât really his fault, she supposes, but her own for fearing such simple consequences.
but isnât it easier to just pretend like all this doesnât matter to her, as a person? detach herself from the situation at hand and see things from the perspective as a writer, find a new subject to grasp onto and work with. sheâs nowhere near to being a professional writer of fiction but one who shares facts with others. while certainly an enticing thought, she finds she lacks the creativity that companies or agents would require in order to see in her a potential author.
not to mention her sullied reputation, though she doesnât really want to address this at the moment.
âit doesnât sound like something iâd be capable of writing about.â iâve learned this lesson already, she thinks. thereâs no point in inviting more questions that would invade my privacy.
Heart racing -- no wait. He had no heart but the palpitations in his chest thundered in a response that meant nothing more simple then... Fear. But he was not afraid, yet this strange emotion washed over his form, caused idle digits to drum against the surface of the table. Was this anxiety?
Words that slipped through unsuspecting lips -- his mind had been idle. His words ignorant and his emotions only crippled his thoughts.Â
And yet the humming in his ears signaled the other; his awareness only returning after words that slipped through -- it had been too late. (But it was always too late for the mad man, which seemed to be many of his woes).
Hair as violet as the irises that contrasted against the contracting pupils, Blood found himself relaxing his form. âMay I?â Had been his question to the empty seat, though he still stood before she allowed him to sit.Â
His physique was still. So still for a man so excited. Energy that crept in his forms as though possessed by another man (or being for that matter) at that moment. Blood found himself intrigued briefly by her reaction. âThen what would you describe as a preferred choice of subject matter, may I ask?â
