Day one:
Athrun decided to have a 'general-clean-up'. The old pieces of mementos from the forgotten life needed to be thrown away. Stocked papers containing stories, which he'd written long ago… all of them branded with 'I have to change these' or 'not that good' – all evaluated and rejected by him. He was his own editor/ critic.
Until she came.
(flashback)
She was burying her nose on his manuscript as she reads it. Holding a piece of apple on her left hand, with the paper on the right, as she sits by his window in that cloudy Sunday afternoon. He was sitting right in front of her- writing on an old Jacobean table he'd inherited from one of his friends.
"If you lean a little bit more to that shabby window, you're very close to throwing yourself outside."
Her brows were tied into a knot- still reading, as though she heard nothing.
"I don't mind picking you up…but then you have to get changed, because it's muddy down there," he continued.
Still, no response.
He was enjoying this monologue. His pen was beginning to lose ink.
"I'll be very much pleased to dress you up…" He gave her a meaningful look.
She heard it.
"Such a pervert…" she said as she shook her head.
Then she gaped at him. Her eyes wide open…
"I didn't understand," she said. This was not the first time she had this comment on his work.
" Don't tire yourself to thinking. That isn't meant for your small brain…" he said as he continue writing.
" I'm not stupid," she sneered at him.
" Of course you're not." He looked apologetic.
"But that's what you're saying."
"No. It's me… my brain's too twisted. You're just too innocent," he clarified.
She was silent for a while.
" Why do you write these?" She began to wonder. "All of these… are sad, puzzling… and without conclusions?"
"I've written that, three years ago."
" And?" she asked.
"I've changed my style…I don't write that way anymore."
"But still, you were capable of writing things, like these." She sounded wounded.
He looked at her, studied her sullen expression. He isn't used to seeing her like that.
" Did it really affect you? I'll burn them… if you want."
" No." She looked at him. She held the papers tightly on her chest. She looked at him, with teary eyes.
" You were lonely back then. So lonely that it reflected on your writings…"
He stood and went in front of her. He held out his hand.
"Now I understand." She said without blinking.
He opened the window, and the cool breeze came in. Some of the papers that she wasn't holding were blown away a few inches from her feet. He stooped and picked them up.
"When you placed water on an empty glass, how would you describe it?" She asked him. It's been three months since their talk about this happened.
"Back then, I call it half- empty."
"But now?" she asked again.
"It's still half-empty."
She bowed. "You're still lonely…"
He sat beside her, holding the other pieces of his old manuscript.
"You…filled the empty half."
(This is just day one… a little bit of clarification, and reflections on my part. Thanks for reading)
