He finds himself staring at the blank screen, his fingers tapping random keys, but not really typing. He feels so empty, so void of all the emotion he was feeling but the day before.
He notices the time in the bottom right corner of his laptop and exhales deeply. He rises from the comfy plush chair and grabs the bottle of pills on the coffee table in front of him. He takes his normal dosage, not bothering to wash it down with water. Eli is far too used to the pills sliding down his throat.
He was diagnosed when he was 17, shortly after a manic episode that left his hearse, Morty, totaled and unfixable. But of course, this is not when Eli's problems really began.
At the age of 15, his girlfriend had decided that the world was too much for her. She overdosed on drugs, ones similar to those which he now took. His therapist thought that his pills would be a trigger, but in some twisted way, it helped him get through everyday.
To sum it up, the famous Eli Goldsworthy is just the stereotypical writer with a crappy past. His first novel had been his personal journal at one time, but with some minor alterations, he made it a #1 best seller.
Eli rubs his eyes tiredly, deciding that he wasn't going to get anything accomplished in his dingy apartment. He pulled his phone from his pocket and sent a quick text to his best friend.
Grabbing his laptop from the stand, he pushed it into his black backpack and searched around for his keys.
Over the years he had slowly begun to let go of his hoarding, but he could never quite get rid of everything. Even the Milky Way wrapper held a significance for him. He and Adam had split it at the first Dead Hand concert they had went to. The pile in the corner contains all of his writings, from poetry to small drabbles to fragments of potential novels.
It took him several moments, but he finds his keys buried at the bottom of his important pile. He locks his door swiftly and shuts his door with a loud thunk.
He walks toward the coffee shop that is only a block away, his sound canceling headphones around his pale neck. His thoughts are jumbled and confused, so he just gazes around the street, trying to think of nothing at all.
He reaches the coffee shop and can see Adam through the window, his green apron tied around his waist. What he doesn't expect is the girl talking to his friend animatedly, her hands everywhere as she speaks. Her auburn curls are tamed, and she is almost the same height as his best friend.
He finds himself staring and snaps out of it immediately. He has never considered even looking at a girl since he was 15. Somehow he felt as if he were tarnishing Julia's memory by looking at this other girl.
He walks into the shop, gives a small grin to Adam. His friend sees and gives the girl a quick apology before excusing himself. They sit in the same tattered booth that they always do.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Adam asks.
"Writer's block," Eli shrugs.
Adam rolls his eyes, then a mischievous grin appears on his face.
"Clare?" Adam calls over his shoulder.
The girl with auburn curls comes from behind the counter and makes her way to them. Eli notices that she too has an apron, and feels his eyebrows raise.
Up close, Eli can see the brilliant shade of blue that are her eyes, and can see the soft angelic planes of her faces. He wants to slap himself.
She is nothing like him, nothing like the sharp planes of his face, the dull green of his eyes. Her outfit is cheery, and he is in all black.
"What is it, Adam?" she asks.
Her voice is angelic too.
"This is Eli," he says, gesturing to him. "He has writer's block."
Clare's eyes meet Eli's green ones seriously. "How can I help?"
Adam raises from his seat. "Just sit here with him and rant about your passion for writing. It'll get him fired up."
Clare hesitantly sits as Adam walks away. Eli is captivated by her every move.
"So you write?" he asks after a moment.
She nods, her curls bouncing. "But nothing like you. You're Eli Goldsworthy, right?"
He cringes slightly and hopes she doesn't notice. "Yeah, I am."
Her eyes spark with interest. "I love your books."
He smiles politely, unsure what to say. "I'd like to know what you write," he says after a moment.
Her mouth forms a small 'o'. "That was terribly rude of me, not to answer your question. I write poems," she confesses, running a hand through her hair.
"Can I see them?" Eli asks.
She pauses, her face turning red. "Sure."
She hands him her phone and he read the words intently. It's like all of the air has been sucked out of him and he's struggling for words.
"Clare, this is beautiful. Better than any poem I could write."
She flushes, becoming bright red. "Thanks."
They sit in a comfortable silence and for the faintest moment Eli can swear that he's already falling in love with her. His hand is on the table and hers grazes it slightly. He's just about to take her hand-.
"Clare!" Adam calls. "I need some help. You can talk to Eli later."
Clare rises from her seat and smiles gently. "I hope you can write soon."
He grins, pulling his laptop from his bag. "I will," he says.
He writes for an hour solid, his eyes drifting to Clare every few moments.
Even though every fiber in him screams that this is a bad idea, that he needs to stay away because all he does is hurt people, he doesn't care. Eli has found his inspiration, and he doesn't plan on going anywhere.
Eli smiles as he types, the words he wants to says finally flowing through his fingers.