Writer in Me

I once wanted to be an author. A writer. But as I grow up and face reality head on, that dream became blurry. And was eventually forgotten.

Now that I'm living my life with the profession that provides
for myself and my family, the writer one day knocked on my door, asking for me to let her in again. Just like the old times. She asked for a cup of coffee. We sat and talked. She asked about me. And I smiled. "I am surviving."
"But are you living the life you wanted?"
I felt a rush of feelings and swelling in my heart.
I sipped my coffee, and turned to her, with a smile.
"Somehow, I can say that I'm satisfied with my life."
"That's good to hear then."

She finished her coffee and was about to leave when I nervously asked, "Will you come back?"
Almost at the door, she stopped and looked at me with the eyes that hold so much intensity I almost winced.
"Oh darling, I never left."

She closed the door without looking back. And that's when I realized, she was and is always with me. She just hid herself in the parts of me that I hold dear no matter how busy I get. I may have forgotten about her sometimes, but she was just  there, observing me. Letting me grow on my own. And now that she was remembered, we may be able to restart the dream after all.

Even as I'm writing this, she's here, sharing her secret smile that only us two know.