***

The hand wrote on the book with enthusiasm. The black pen against the book was something the writer had gotten accustomed to in a short period of time. He wrote down,

Dear diary,

For the first time, I'm convinced that I am doing the wrong thing but I can't seem to stop myself. Every passing day I have my patience deteriorating and....

He hesitated before sighing and tearing the page off. Closing the book, he threw it on the table and laid on the couch jadedly.

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  Clarissa quickly turned when she noticed him staring. Presently, she was trying the zipper of her dress but her hands fumbled with...