"The joy of life is variety; the tenderest of love requires to be rekindled by intervals of absence."

-Samuel Johnson

Inexplicably exhausted, Maka crossed her office, circumnavigating piles of textbooks and papers stacked well above her thighs. A dull headache formed in her left temple as she surveyed the stacks which once gave her so much joy. As she punched the numbers on the dusty rotary, being too much of a mess to call through the mirror, she knocked over newsprint, sending it sliding through the air and under the desk. Groping blindly under the antique table as she held the corded receiver to her ear, her free hand swept back and forth across the thick carpet. Her fingers closed around the paper and a stray novel that must have found its way under months ago, Maka half slammed the objects on the table in aggravation as her call went to voicemail, the tone piercing the silent room. She fell into the desk chair heavily, which moved minimally over the worn carpet as it squeaked to a stop.

Maka let out a long sigh and pushed over the newspaper and paperback to the side. The corner of the book caught her eye and she slid the yellowing parchment aside. She paused for a moment before gingerly taking up the loosely bound novel and tuning it in her hands. It was the first novel she had edited, just days into her career. Its crinkled pages and coffee stains filled her with a strange nostalgia, just a spark of the fire that filled her years ago, now so long gone.

Bits of feeling poured back in her; emotions she hadn't felt to this degree in months flooded her: the joy of publishing her first books, the deep depression in denying hopeful writers, and the harmony in receiving elated looks on young faces being told that would leave their mark in this world. Then the mingling occasional poignancy she would get that settled not long after overtook her. It clashed with the deep-set apathy and disillusion that now enveloped her. Like a callused hand gripping her tight, this strange mood settled in her, brewed in her gut for longer than her memory could record. Her entire existence seemed squeezed into this small room, her entire worth the net product of years of studying and training amounted to what? Was it a few hundred dusty novels leaning against shelves in crumbling shops, none of which were even hers?

She yearned for more, something to distract herself from the ever present cloud that hung above her, threatening to open up at moment. When novels ceased to compel and immerse her, Maka would wonder if she had peaked early, if this was the beginning of some ironic end.

And, in a sense, her worst fears came to light.

Two nights ago, she was joined by something other than the piercing numbness. In the middle of a novel she knew that her company would never consider publishing, she couldn't read another line. The words blurred into lines and then blotches, and despite her efforts, she could only mechanically read them. No thought or feeling registered; they lost all meaning and became empty shells of ink plastered on cheap parchment. So she waited it out like fever, even took the day off certain it was fatigue that rendered her incapable of working, but her problem persisted.

On the second day Maka decided to quit. The decision might have seemed hasty, but the pride and joy she had felt her first few years had dissipated long ago. Only an intangible chain kept her fettered to this lifestyle, its fictional hold to strong to break.

She laughed bitterly at the irony of the silent phone. How painfully irreverent she now was, how wasted her life now seemed when placed against the bleak backdrop. And, for the first time she craved something greater, desired more than long lonely nights spent reading page after page of the same novel rewritten tenfold. It all felt and tasted the same to her. Each book became a copy of the last, like a fresh coat of paint covering the same wall- it was a guise of originality and importance.

She stared at her reflection from across the room. The floor length mirror adorning a fancy cast iron frame was propped against the wall- a gift from a thankful author whom she helped start a successful series of novels. It stood dusty for years, in the same patch of dusty carpet it was first placed on, casting a rainbow of color on the opposite wall of the room.

She noted her tired look, the dark circles under her eyes- a byproduct of persistent insomnia. Her hair which once only lay in pigtails was pulled back into a more sophisticated but messy bun that made her look as old as she felt. Her lips were a thin hard line and her eyes a dulled green, lacking the luster and spark that once filled them. Despite being in the prime of her life, she couldn't have felt less alive, less invigorated. Getting up swiftly and walking in the quick no nonsense gait she was so accustomed, Maka stood in front of the reflective glass for a moment, noticing the sharp edges of her figure that never quite rounded out with age. Placing hands on either side of the object she, tried sliding it over put it proved too heavy, the paint on one edge created an unsightly mark across the wall.

A scratchy white blanket sheet thrown on the small love seat next to her would solve the issue. Throwing the thin cotton sheet over the mirror, she felt much better now that she couldn't see the problem. She felt like a child covering his eyes to make something go away. Out of sight out of mind, wasn't that how the clichéd saying went?

After another failed attempt at calling her business, she made her way over to the solitary window in the room. The window let in light that brought her such a melancholy feeling she could not stand it. The oppressing rays shone on one particularly tall stack of papers and books, casting the shadow in such a way that a distorted vase was drawn on the opposite wall in layers of translucent darkness. And suddenly she couldn't take it anymore, the tiny room, its patchy carpeting, the small crack on the far wall, what became the entirety of her life, filled her with unnerving sadness.

Before she could process it, Maka was rummaging in her closet for her winter coat and a pair of gloves. Throwing on a worn pair of boots, she made her way out her front door and into the cold evening. Her breath came out in hot wisps, cirrus clouds on her tongue, condensing on contact with the air as she smelled the rich aroma only a crisp winter evening has. The key in her pocket felt heavy, the door behind her mockingly large.

Gripping the jagged edge of the cool metal until it almost pierced skin, Maka made a split second decision. Throwing the door open with two hands, she blindly chucked the metal to the end of the hall, earning her a dull clink as it hit the metal table and bounced into the adjoining room. Before losing her nerve, Maka flipped the lock and slammed the door shut, falling against its peeling paint and sliding down onto the damp concrete of her front steps.

She chuckled softly and looked up at the moon; its exposed teeth seemed to be grinding as thick clouds passed in front of it. All the space in the world was above her and she still felt enclosed in something. A pincushion- yes a pincushion is what it was. She was trapped in a pincushion looking up at the pinpricks that were the stars. Just beyond them was her escape. It was absurd; she was absurd to be thinking like this.

She tried emptying her mind of everything as she lifted herself up off the sodden doormat, not caring for the spot of wetness that most likely had seeped through her coat.

Letting her legs carry her throughout town, Maka made her way past the little shops and restaurants she had spent hours in lifetimes ago. The apartments and streets crisscrossing between them blurred into one solid blob of scenery.

She felt invisible walking among the bright lights and amid happy crowds. Veering off the main road, Maka took the dirt path that she once used as a shortcut from her old apartment to the school. The trees swayed with the howling wind and she wished she had brought with her a hat or scarf to wrap around her.

She stopped in the middle of a wooden bridge that Soul had pushed her off when they were just students at the DWMA. A pang of sadness set over her as she remembered him, the memory returning in pieces.

It was hot that day, so unbearably hot that they skipped a day of training to cool off by the bank of the river. Soul had stripped down to his underpants and Maka chuckled despite herself at the memory of her sneaking glances from the side of the river, oblivious to the fact that Soul knew what she was doing. She could almost see him wading shoulder deep across to her side of the shore, taunting her. The memory was so crisp it stung, she could almost see him on the snow covered grass walking bare-chested toward her, and she could almost feel as her heart sped up as he drew nearer to her.

She recounted how she had slipped on a muddy patch getting up so quickly when he ran after her. The rough pebbly make up of the bridge she retreated up was so vivid, as vivid as the feel of his hands that wrapped around her and sent her sailing over the edge of the wall and into the frigid water. Oh how she had yelled at him from in the middle of the creek. A piece of green riverweed was plastered to the side of her face and she reached up to take it off she had lost her balance on the algae coated rock she stood on and was swept away with the gentle flow of the river. Had her head not so suddenly slipped under the water causing her to swallow two mouthfuls of tepid river water, she would have been fine. But the grimy liquid filled her lungs before she found footing. After the plunge her memory blurred. She must have made it across the water and to the shore where she lay sputtering as Soul leaned over her not giving her a chance to answer the string of questions he threw at her. After reaching a gallon or so of water, her water logged lungs managed to sputter out,

"Soul Eater Evans, you will be the death of me, but not before I manage to choke you with my bare hands." She had never seen a face light up so might at such solemn words, but them again she doubted few ever said anything as remotely strange as that.

A gentle plop in the water brought her back to reality. A few kids were cracking the ice that formed around the point bar, throwing lopsided pieces into the icy torrents with their gloved hands. She watched one particularly large sheet languidly make its way toward her. As its jagged edges passed the underside of the bridge, she realized just as that memory it was destined to become water under the bridge.