He touched the scars on her wrist. A mixture of short and long slashes that seemed to have been there for so long.
He sighed and asked incredulously. “Why did you do this?”
She smiled at him, but there’s a hint of sadness in her eyes. Unconsciously she rubs her wrist.
“You know…when you’re too caught up with words but it’s the only thing that’s keeping you sane, you write. You write even if you can’t write no more” she said.
“But why write on your wrist? I don’t get you.” He asked again.
“It’s easier to carve everything in the skin, because if I write it on a piece of paper eventually it’ll get lost, or be taken away from me just like everything I’ve ever known that has now slipped into oblivion. So I write it here because even if it hurts, even if it will leave me scarred forever at least it’s real, it’s permanent unlike my happiness.”
— When a writer runs out of paper