K. Merce

                   The embroidery on his shirt was intricate. Little white vines that ran up the inside of his cuffs. Only visible when he rolled them up. He held the Pen in his hand, almost begging it, white knuckled, to write for him. He was sweating, his eyes were red, and he was noticeably irritated. His oiled leather chair made a small squeak when he slid down the backrest halfway, presenting himself to his desk in a lazy manor. He could look dignified, if he hadn't been slouched. He always slouched. As long as he can remember. He slouched. He, was Kailen. Or just K. He was a writer. He was a good writer at that. He sat in his studio, which he had fashioned, exactly the way he wanted when he was young. Room behind a book case. Small, quiet, a window the size of a picture frame. From the outside, on the street, it was another window in a sea of glass. His office held a small desk, His favorite leather wingback chair, a bookshelf of only his favorite books, and soundproofing insulation. Kailen was becoming a recluse. His condo was one bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen. He lived in his studio. Usually slept on the floor. He felt safe here. Nobody knew this place existed. It was his safety net, his real home. He wrote for a living. on the wall was a copy of his book. "The love idea". It had made him enough to live in solitude away from people. All those people. They walked and ran everywhere all day. They did so to what ends? To go home to a family that was broken? Alimony and divorce settlements, Children who didn't listen, bills, chaos, etc. He stayed away from those things, and had never been in love. Never. He was sure of that. Love was just a feeling. He would know if he felt something. He picked up his phone, held down the number 6, speed dialing his therapist.
"Hello, this is Kailen Merce, calling to make an appointment with Ms. Dixon. I need to see her as soon as she has time. Great, tomorrow works fine. Thanks "