Hold tight, the future's bright
Pens in your hand, so don't stop writing now
Writing now.
You are in the middle of writing your first novel, when your favorite song comes up. It is City Lights by Emblem3 and it was the song that was playing on the radio when Patrick and you kissed for the first time. Beside that, it also reminds you of the last phone conversation you and Patrick had about a week ago. You told him you really wish to have your book published and would like to work on it, so you might not be able to spend as much time with him as you used to. To cut things short, he didn't accept the news well. He told you he is not happy with your decision loud and clear, but to sum it up, was "Don't call me until you figure out what your priorities are."
But somehow, despite the heart break, your character was turning out to be strong, independent woman, who didn't need anyone to tell her what to do. Or to take care of her. You are starting to get a feeling this book could be at least a summer hit of not anything else. Maybe the motivation is a little, yet sweet card, which came to you just a few days ago. And it's includes the first three lines of your and Pat's song. With a loud sigh, you get up and make yourself a warm mug of green tea with just a spoonful of honey and stare through the window, pressing the mug close to your chest. The night sky is lit with stars and you can see twinkling city lights in the distance. But you feel calm. The sight of what you see through your window makes you feel free. Your moment is interrupted when your phone rings. At first, you want to ignore it. After all, if it's really important, the caller can text you. But something makes you change your mind.
"Y/N speaking."
"Y/N/N, is that really you?" you hear the drunk version of your boyfriend's voice. You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose.
"Yes, it's me. What do you want?"
He giggles and you know for sure he is too drunk to be described: "What are you doing?"
"Writing novel. Gazing through the window."
"Can you see my apartment?"
His apartment. His words open the wounds you thought have been healed. Before taking a break in your relationship, you had been living in an apartment in downtown Chicago. Close to all the bars and restaurants, to all of the hot spots of Chicago city nightlife.
"I don't know, Patrick. Did you call me to ask if I see your apartment?"
"I want you to come home," he sounds sober. And defeated.
"I am home."
"I want you to come home to me."
Look at the sky
(When you are alone)
Every night
(I'll leave my light on)
So you can see your way home
"Good night, Pat. Sober up, you probably have practice tomorrow morning," you whisper, fighting back tears and trying to swallow the growing lump in your throat. Before he can answer, you cancel the call and turn off your phone.
~PATRICK'S POV~
Caught up in those pretty city lights
After she cancels the call, the image of her face pops in my mind. How beam of lights danced on her face when we were driving past the clubs and busy restaurants in a taxi on our way to different dates. I know right now she doesn't want to see me, but I can't stay in here. I might be too drunk to think straight, but I can see one thing clearly – I can't stay here tonight.
