He sees things in arcs. In pretty little storylines that all make sense. That wrap up nicely, loose threads tucked in and rough lines smoothed soft. In his eyes, there’s a flow, steady and constant. He thinks he knows the plot, the pacing. Where act one ends, another follows. More passionate. More thrilling. What he doesn’t know, a lesson he learns endlessly, hopelessly doomed to repeat, is that they’ve never been outlined. His lovers are never carefully crafted. The world will not allow it. They’re collections of traumas, of character development, of twists and turns and thoughts he can never predict.

They’re human.

They’re real.

Is it poetic that the cycle continues, mirrored in the faces of those he believes to be different? They’re never original pieces, but rather retellings of the same dour story. The faces change, but the tale is old as time.

He fools himself in circles, dizzy from their affection. A soft smile. A gentle touch. They’re clouds against his sun, blocking his vision. A trick of the light.

He has a stack of these books on his shelf, written through tears and heartache, but he lacks retrospection. The gift bore from sorrow, his hindsight, can break the pattern. But he’s weak. He’s foolish. He loves the feeling of temporary head highs too much to recognize the plummet.

He’s not ready to crack the spine. To reread the stories his heart has suffered through. They exist, but he worries. He fears, terrified, that if he were to steal a glimpse, the creativity would run dry. The passion would evaporate. He may never write again. He may never love again.

So, he drags the blade across his wrist, steadies the quill, and begins to write another.