Writing was her hobby, which did get turn into her passion, unknowingly. She wanted to write stories, stories embracing love and passion. She wanted to write characters, real to her, and unreal to the world. She wrote to get traveled into another world. The world which she pined sometimes to be a part of. She wrote because she liked the way her diary held everything between both of them, never betraying her. She liked it when the pages got beautifully inked down with the stories she wished to live through. She liked it when the old computer screen carried her figments of imagination in a pleasing way in a hidden folder not being visible to any other soul. But, never did she have the courage to write about herself. "I" was never to be found among the stories she jotted down. She was never the protagonist of her stories. She was scared, maybe. Scared of sharing her story with the people, or with her diary.
She didn't want anybody to know her story. She wanted to take it with her to her grave, because some secrets should be left as secrets, she believed. She was a coward, maybe. It is not that she never tried. Of course, she did, but every time in vain. She knew that the day she will let those never spoken words to flow out from her mouth, things will change.
And change in such a revolutionary manner that acceptance would get difficult.
So, she is quite. And perhaps, will always be.
But never will she stop writing about others, writing about the world, writing about the boy who is taking care of her aged mother all day and night or that little sister who is selflessly caressing her brother, or an old couple sitting in the park with hands locked into each others'. She is sitting in her room on a rocking chair with an old computer in front of her under the dim lamp light, typing another magical story with her hands but the hands would never taste the pain and love of writing her own story, say it, fortunately or unfortunately.
(Or maybe, the day will come.)