an overheard conversation between a writer and their muse

“You do know I have noticed.”

“Have you now.”

"Yes.”

“And what is it that you’ve noticed this time?”

“You never write about me."

“...”

“Did you hear me? I said that you-”

“Yes, I heard you.”

“And?”

“...Was that something I was supposed to be hiding?”

“Of course not. You know better than to try and hide things from me.”

“Quite perceptive, aren't we?”

“Only when it comes to you, love.”

“...”

“So?”

“What?”
“Oh, please don’t play coy. Not with me.”

“I think you and I both know I’m a bit too old to pass for coy, dear.”

“And please don't deflect.”

“As if you’d ever let me.”

“You’re right, I’d never.”

“And I’d expect nothing less from you.”

“But you’d think knowing that would stop you from putting us through this
song and dance again and again.”

“One could think that, yes.”

“And yet.”

“And yet.”

“...”

“...”

“You admit it, then?”

“What am I admitting to again?”

“That you never write about me.”

“Hm.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I suppose.”

“Right.”

“...”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And why is that?”

“So many questions today.”

“Darling. Look at me.”

“...”

“Look at me, love. Please.”

“...”

“Why won't you write about me?”

"...You know I can't do that."

"But you write about everything.”

"Exactly, that's precisely the point."

"Hah, of course. I see it now. 'Oh dear, oh baby, you're my everything!', isn't that
it? You can't really expect me to buy that lousy of an excuse."

"It's not, though.”

“Oh, believe me, it’s definitely lousy.”

“No, I mean it’s not an excuse.”

“Of course it isn't.”

“Believe me, I wish it was. It’d all be much easier if it was an excuse.”

“Of course it would.”

“I mean it.”

“Of course you do.”

“Stop rolling your eyes. Yes, I do. And you’re wrong, actually. I don't mean to
say you're my everything. In fact, you're the exact opposite. You’re-”

“Oh, I’m your nothing, that makes me feel so much better-”

“You're not like everything. You’re something else. You're-”

“Ah, yes, I love when you get descriptive, I’m something else-”

“If you’d let me finish my thoughts maybe you'd be more pleased.”

“I’ll let you finish your thoughts when your thoughts stop being excuses.”

“I’m not trying to excuse myself, I’m-”

“Of course you aren't.”

“I’m trying to tell you that you’re special.”

“...Right.”
“I am.”

“...”

“I am. All that I meant to say is that I can't treat you the way I treat everything
else. With every other thing, sure, I can try to get a grasp on it long enough to
turn it into a symbol. I can strip it down to my perspective, streamline it into
thematic cohesion, pin it to a metaphor. Every other thing can easily become a
tool, something that I bend and shape to fit my message. It’s easy, it's natural,
it’s what those things are there for. But if I tried to do that to you… It wouldn't
feel right."

"..."

“It’d feel empty, alright? Empty and lazy, and you know I can't do that.”

“...”

“I could even say that it’d feel sacrilegious.”

“Hah. It's too late to get out of this with flattery.”

"It was worth a try.”

“Hm.”

“...And either way, you're already in all that I write. It always starts with you,
always has. You know that."

"...Can't you at least try?"

"Why do you want this so bad?"

"Because it's how I get to see what you keep.”

“What I keep?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“It's just… You're not a person that's very easy to read. Except, you know, if I’m
actually reading you. Your writing feels so much like an extension of you.
Everything that marks you, that makes you you, is in here, good or bad. I never
really know what made it to your heart until I see you set it in ink."

"...I guess that's one way to put it.”

"To be honest, sometimes I feel it's the only way you actually know how to love
something."

"..."

"And being your blindspot... Well, it makes me feel irrelevant.”

"Irre- Alright, now you're being ridiculous."

"Make me feel otherwise, then."

"...I'm with you here, right now. Isn't that enough to get across what I feel?"

"And yet.”

“And yet what?”

“...You're distant."

"I'm busy."

"With what? You haven't even touched your pen."

"I'm remembering.”

“Remembering.”

“Yes. I can treasure things like that too, you know. Some things are just… mine.
To keep.”

“Yours.”

“Yes. Some things are not meant for anyone else.”

“...You said that I’m special.”

“...What about it?”

“Prove it, then.”

“What?”

"Prove me I'm not anyone else."

"..."

"Please?”

“...”

“Please? I’ll be content even with just one line.”

“...It won't be any good.”

“It doesn't have to be. Please? I'll read it once and hide it away and you'll never
have to remember you're not perfect ever again."
"You can be very cruel when it serves your interests, you know.”

"Please, as if you didn't know that before. You just hadn't complained yet
because my interests are usually yours."

"..."

"Please."

"...Just this once."

"Thank you."

"And you'll never ask for this again?"

"Please read it to me when you're finished."

"I don't... I don't want to put it on paper. It's just a simile, it feels childish. Can't I
describe it to you out loud and we'll never talk about this again?"

"You know that's a cop-out."

"Please."

"...Alright."

"Thank you."

"I'm waiting."

"Do you know what the section of a book is?"

"What, like a chapter?"

"No, no, in bookbinding. It's what we call the sheets grouped together and
folded in half. Those little booklets that are tied to others and sewn onto the
seam of the book."

"Ah, yes, I've seen you work those before. Of course you'd compare me to a
book, that is true devotion."

"Don't tease, you know how hard this is.

"And you know that's why I have to tease."

"Either way, that's not it. You're not the book. We are."

"The two of us?"

"Yes, that's what being with you feels like."

"Like being tied up and stuck together?"

"No, that's not- This would be a lot easier if you stopped asking questions."

"If I didn't ask questions we wouldn't be here at all."

"Yes, but now we are here and if you don't help we'll never leave. Can you
please stop and let me finish? Please, just until the end."

"...Alright, I'll be quiet."

"Thank you."

"..."

"Right, yes. As I was saying, we're not the section either. Although, they are
also called gatherings or even signatures, and that is my absolute favorite part. It
does remind me of you.”
“...”

“Sorry, yes, that's beside the point. What I meant is that we're like one of the
sheets folded in half. The ones on the outside, to be exact. The very end and the
very beginning."

"..."

"Don't make that face, I'm not done. And I'm not aiming for the cliche, I
promise. We could be any of the others, if it pleases you more. With the
exception of the middle one."

"..."

"Don't look at me like that! I told you it wasn't good enough for paper."

"Stop worrying and finish talking."

"Stop making faces."

"I already have."

"..."

"..."

"...We need the separation between us, for it to work. The comparison."

"..."

"You say that- That there's distance between us. And it's not... untrue. But I
think that's a virtue. I think that the distance is maybe the most important part.
Being with you, it feels like being a single sheet of paper, folded in half and
separated by 50 other folds. It feels like you're a part of me, like we’re
intrinsically connected, and yet I'll still never know what is written on you. I
know it's the same story. I know you're my beginning, or my conclusion,
whichever way you want to look at it. I know whatever answer I have, you were
the question. I can't know the full narrative, neither can you. The only thing we
know is that we need to be together for it to be complete. For anything to make
sense. Because that's the beautiful part, what's in between. What we're making
together, you understand? And without the distance, it'd be useless. We'd know
each other too well, see each other too well. We wouldn't need the rest of it.
We'd be a single page, self-contained, technically whole, yes, but altogether
senseless. The beauty is in the effort we make to reach each other, to make sense
of the space between my ending and your beginning, and fill it with something
more lovely, more meaningful than just the two of us together, you see? More
than the sum of our parts."

"..."

"And that's why I can't write about you. I'm always writing for you, towards
you. Anything more and I'd just be unbearably redundant."

"..."

"Come on, don't turn away from me. I can see you smiling."

"..."

"You can speak now, I'm finished. Tell me what you think. Did I satisfy your
curiosity? Do you feel less desperately irrelevant?"

"..."

"..."

"Ah, alright, you. Stop with the smug face. I still think it's an excuse."

"You do now.”
"Yes. But it is less lousy."

"Right."

"I'll accept it."

"Then so will I."

"But you were right, it's not made to go on paper."

"Is that so.”

"Yes. Frankly, you’re better off if you never write it down. Or repeat it to
anyone else, really.”

“I see.”

“Yes. It's better if it stays between us, understand?"

"Perfectly."

"I'm the only one allowed to hear it."

"Of course."

“For the good of your reputation.”

“For the good of my reputation.”

"Do you promise?"

"I do."

"Good. Then we're on the same page."

"Always."

"..."

"..."

"Thank you. For letting me understand.”

"You're welcome. I don't mind it as much if it's only for you."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"You'll never stop asking for this again, will you."

"Not in a million years.”