Inspire: November Storytelling

Can you believe I've been an absolutely inspired blob (If that's not a word yet, it is now.) recently, but I didn't manage to turn any of my inspiration into words. I've noticed I had a really easy time writing newspaper articles due to the magazines full of helpful tips I've been reading, but they seemed to lead my creative writing skills to a failure to thrive. I'm sorry I couldn't come up with anything more creative than a "short story" I wrote months ago. I named it "Prologue", so I guess at that point in my life, I was attempting to write a book - not for the first time. But I always know what I want to say with my writing, so I feel like there's no sense in retarding the ignition and writing xx chapters instead of a few or just several pages on which I hit enter and space several times.
Don't overinterpret this ramble, I was simply trying to say that sometimes people push you away while you have no clue of their motives and that it's the worst feeling to not know because it impedes getting over it and moving on. (That's the opposite of what the few chapters I wrote after the prologue were about but let's ignore that, I didn't finish the story anyway.)
However that be, it happened to me twice in my life but it won't happen again because now I always just think "There are two people who belong to an ongoing relationship, you can't take both parts."
Maybe I should write a post about life lessons some time.
Nevermind, hope you enjoy reading this masterpiece. Not.

She walks up the stairs, creaking under every step she takes. She assumes he can hear her coming up already, the sound of her arrival echoing through the steamy stairwell.
As she reaches the last stair tread, she pauses and waits.
Ten seconds pass.
He’s probably rushing up from the sofa and walking towards the door.
Twenty seconds pass.
He’s probably putting on clothes right now, it’s a hot day, maybe he’s only wearing boxers.
Thirty seconds pass.
He’s probably searching for his second sock as he always loses one somewhere around the apartment.
Forty seconds pass.
She becomes impatient, pattering with her feet on the dark, dirty wood.
Fifty seconds pass.
The doorbell is embedded in the stone wall, in reach of her nervously moving fingers. She waits for another ten seconds. Nothing.
Her fingers finally press the cold metal, the sound is shrieking in her ears.
Footsteps behind the dingy glass door.
She can vaguely see two colours, blue and red. The blue of his favourite pair of jeans, the red of his favourite shirt, most likely. Blue and red, his favourite colours. 
He’s hesitating.
Finally she hears him unlocking the door and it glides open. He’s standing in the door frame, the messy apartment behind him, his eyes surprised for a second. 
“Hey”, she says, a smile forming on her lips, uncertain, just as herself.
“Hello.” His voice - emotionless. He might have had a bad day?
She wants to step inside as she always does and nearly bumps into him. He’s still standing in the doorframe, looking down on her as if there’d be miles between them.
“Don’t worry about the mess inside, you know I don’t mind.”
No reply. Has to be a bad day.
“We could also go outside for a walk? Maybe pick up a coffee at Starbucks and go to the river?”
One of his eyebrows is rising.
“Christ, would you tell me what’s wrong?”
“I think you know what's wrong.”
“Do I?” She’s irritated. It’s his voice that makes him sound like a different person.
“Just leave.”
She doesn’t move and just stares at him in disbelief.
“Go. Now. You know the way out.”
“Did anything happen?”, she asks haltingly.
“Go away.” The icy tone of his once so comforting, heartwarming voice is making her wince slightly. 
Five seconds pass.
He turns his back to her, closing the door just as she takes a little step towards him.
He slams the door shut, leaving her on her own.
Her hand strokes over the glass of his door which seems to mirror the coldness he just showed towards her.
She whispers “Okay” and then starts walking down. Slowly. Maybe he'll rush back to the door and call after her. Perhaps he won't.
A few steps later, she stops and turns around, her eyes resting on the door, waiting for it to move and slide open again.
But it doesn't.
The stairwell suddenly feels cold.



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