There were ink stains on her finger and the scent of coffee lingers in the room on a Saturday morning. She had been writing all day, for what purpose, I did not know. Calligraphy, a novel, poetry, or all of them, only she could tell. Sitting down at her coffee table as if she was oblivious to the fact that I was even there. I sat next to her, brushed off her long hair towards her ear. Touched her cheeks with all of my palm.
“I miss you”, I said.
She closed her eyes, moved her head towards my hand as if she was fully appreciating my touch on her face. She opened her eyes, looked at me and smiled. She then went back to writing.