She wrote for the first time in years, not in her language, but in the language of longing and missing and sighing. She wrote. She told a story. She lingered on to the story for days. She told no one about it, read it to no one, except herself. What is a story no one can read? What is an unwanted story? A story that should never happen, should never be?
It haunted her. She did not read it anymore. It wasn`t necessary. It did not need further polishing. It was not going to be read anyway. She thought of it all the time. Was it a good story? Would it have become a good story had it been given a chance? Would it have become a tragedy? A Romeo and Juliet with deeper, however microcosmic, consequences? Was she implying grandeur to something meaningless? A story about common things, common people, common mistakes….
How many stories have ever been written like this, she wondered in her sleepless hours. How many stories have ever been thrown away without the chance of being read, appreciated, depreciated. Where would all the stories untold go? All the words said and taken back, all the chances and possibilities removed from ever being.
“I wrote something I’d like to read to you”, she saw herself saying. She imagined her crude words, possible mistakes, her own interpretations of past events, her deepest feelings and fears scrutinized by the third party somewhat involved. She turned on the computer and looked at the file’s icon floating on the desktop area. Her hand rested on the mouse for a few minutes, her eyes on the little Word icon. She dragged it decidedly and threw it in the trash bin.