The Posy's Dialogue

A minute passed. Then five. She gawked at the screen, dumbfounded. She had never expected anybody to go through her compositions, much less reach out. But, in a strange way, she felt an unusual connection with Visitor #2300. It seemed to her that this person, whoever they were, knew her, in a way nobody ever had before. In a way so intimate, that she felt all that separated them were the screens in front of them.

It was late, and she knew she had to be up early the next day. But she also knew, if she didn't respond tonight, she'd regret it. Even though it was around the time she usually sat down to write, her words betrayed her tonight. She could think of nothing to say to a seemingly regular compliment.

Heart pounding, eyes wide open, her fingers shakily typed the only response she could think of.

"Thank you, I appreciate you reaching out."

Although she secretly awaited a reply, any reply, she figured that'd be that. No prompt suggested otherwise. She switched screens and went back to her draft, knowing that she wouldn't be completing it tonight. Mustering all her remaining focus, she started reading, when the unfamiliar alert rang again.

"Working on the next one?"

Concentration had never been her strong suit. Especially if she found something intriguing elsewhere. Visitor #2300 was certainly all that, and more. Saving and closing her draft for good, she turned her attention to what was increasingly becoming a conversation. She knew she needed it. It had been so long since she'd had spoken to anybody outside of work and family, it almost felt like returning to civilization, coarse and unprepared.

"That's an impressive guess."

"It's that time of the night, isn't it? Your time. An hour or two before you publish."

She was flattered. Nobody, not even her dearest well-wishers had noticed the miniscule details associated with her habit of writing. To know that somebody out there had, made her feel precious, like her work was worth watching out for.

"I'm afraid I'll be a disappointment tonight, much like the past few weeks."

"I wouldn't be so hard on myself if I were you. Literature takes time. Great literature, more so."

"Charmed. But what I do is hardly literature. Most days, it's just the truth I live everyday."

"On the contrary, that's literature of the highest form, deriving its beauty from its authenticity."

"Sounds to me like everybody is a writer in that case."

"Of course they are."

"It's just that some choose to put pen to paper, while others don't."

"It's just that some choose to put pen to paper, while others don't."

She was beyond astonished. She didn't have many people she could discuss writing with. She didn't have any people who shared her opinions on the subject. And here she was, in the middle of the night, talking to a complete stranger, who not only held the same views as her, but also put them in the words she had been using all her life. She was wondering how serendipitous it was that they found each other that night, when a new message blinked.

"May I ask you a question? One I've been mulling ov