The cursor blinked at the top of the white page. Its rhythm was so steady, and it seemed like it might as well have been mocking her.
Amara sat cross-legged in the corner of her room, laptop balanced on her thighs, and her fingers poised over the keyboard. This was war to her. A word war. And she was losing.
There were four coffee cups on the floor. All from today. One was still warm, but only still warm because she'd microwaved it twice.
Her hair was in a loose braid, half of it falling apart. A pair of round glasses sat on her nose, sliding lower every few seconds. She didn't push them back up.
She exhaled and finally typed:
"The storm came, not from the clouds, but from the silence."
She stared at it. Deleted it. Typed it again. And ended up deleting it again.
"Ughhh," she groaned, rolling onto her back. The laptop slipped off her knees and thudded on the carpet.
