He checks the clock. 11:59. He glances down at a sheet of paper scrawled with more crossed out lines than words- and the words aren't even adequate. They're strung together awkwardly, falling over each other to vie for the spots of "lamest," "most cliché," and "just stupid in general."
He makes a sound like a strangled scream, crumples up the sheet and throws it in the direction of the wastebasket. It hits the rim and the contents, more wadded papers, spill out. He clenches his hands, fists trembling, and sighs, bitterness rushing out of him.
It's been more than a month. It's like he just can't anymore. The tap won't turn, the inspiration won't flow. And the most frustrating part is that he can feel it, the underlying current, the pulse right under his fingertips. But he just can't get to it.
Believe him, he's tried. He tried to write. Tried to do all the things that normally pulled him out of the situation- listening to music, browsing the internet, just taking time, even resorted to his most desperate tactic: sleep deprivation- but when he actually puts his pen to the paper, the words come out apathetic, depressingly sluggish.
He checks the time again. 12: 01. He runs his hand through his spiky white hair and grabs his jacket, pulling it on in one swift movement. It's getting chillier, autumn settling in. In fact, school... he mentally curses. How could he forget? School's tomorrow- actually today since it was past twelve- and what was he doing? Staying up after twelve and going to the local cafe (he had forgotten about dinner). Good job, he thinks, getting six hours of sleep before the day school starts. Ah, well, sleep deprivation was one way to stimulate his mind.
He pushes the door of the cafe open, the warm yellow light spilling on the dark sidewalk. A bell fixed to the door tinkles softly.
"One mint hot chocolate and one of the cakes, please," he says.
"To stay or to go?"
"Stay."
He sits at a small circular table for two right next to the window. He keeps one hand on the green mug, gazing at the streetlights with his eyebrows furrowed slightly. The cake sits in front of him, barely poked at. The cafe is mostly empty, it being past midnight and all; it's nice. The stillness has a quality to it; like an ocean undisturbed, or maybe a sheet of ice. He can feel the dormant thoughts in his mind stirring slightly.
There's a soft ringing and he's jolted out of his reverie. He turns, surprised to find another person up at the time, and sees a girl. Her black hair is tied up in a bun high on her head. She wears a short, black trench coat and a peach-colored scarf tugged up to mouth.
"A hot chocolate with whipped cream to stay, please," she says, sounding slightly breathless.
He's already staring out the window again. He can feel the girl glance at him when she passes, choosing a comfy couch that's next to the window too. She sits farther away and sideways too, so he can only see her profile.
After that small disturbance, it's quiet again. He stops focusing on her, though he catches himself looking at her once in a while. Just curiosity, he reasons.
He ends up taking the cake home, sticking it in the fridge before heading to bed.