This is another piece in the ‘Dead Poet’ "series" or something. It's a short story inspired by the the six-sentence story of the same name that written for a prompt.

In it, the protagonist falls deeply in love with a person through their poetry, only to remain alone for a lifetime. I hope I’ve captured the feeling of being in love with something unattainable well enough.

While I’m writing sometimes in the first person here, it is mostly fiction—just in case anyone wonders, which has happened in the past, especially since the first part here is actually about struggles of writing block, which is very real.

While some of the stories here are very different from my newer writing, I wanted to keep them, as most were written as exercises—either in first or third person—to help me grow as a writer.

Writing, like any other skill, takes time.

Short Story - The Silence Between Us (In love with a Dead Poet)

I feel like I have nothing left to write these days. Instead of creating, I’ve been sitting on my bed in a vegetative state, guilt accumulating with every sip of wine I take. I know I should be writing—or doing something, anything. Sometimes, I catch myself simply waiting for nightfall, just so I can curl up and pretend to sleep, though occasionally, I find myself fantasizing instead.

But sleep? I cannot. Anxiety and relentless dreams have stolen that mercy from me. I feel less than human-splintered and incomplete, a fragmented version of who I once was. My inner world mirrors the grey skies above and the seas below: turbulent, cold and just as unforgiving as the dark, peaceful late Novembers of Northern Europe.

It’s either drowning me in my own thoughts or completely silent. In those quiet, fleeting moments, I’m just waiting for the surge knowing it will come—and I’ll have to face the battle once again.
Even now, in this moment, I sit here, staring at the blank document, thinking: Why can’t I write? Something that once came to me so naturally, so effortlessly, has become an insurmountable task. So here am I, wondering: What is there for me to write if I have no story to tell? Maybe writing about my dreams could be a start.

And dream I do. I miss the dreams I used to have…
They were the kind of dreams—vivid and conscious—where every sense was awakened. My favourite ones took place in the early hours of August nights, you know, when the dark slowly gives way to dawn. Oh, August, how it has always blessed me with the most beautiful of scenes and sensations: starry skies, the scent of the sea, and a cool breeze brushing against my skin.

In my dreams, I cherished those precious moments with you. All my life, I’ve given you bits and pieces of myself, but in my dreams, we shared ourselves in a way that felt timeless. Before I knew it, the hours had slipped by unnoticed. The way we’d sit, side by side, savouring the night, the quiet, and each other’s company was the greatest of intimacies I’ve ever known. Hand in hand, head on a shoulder, your cologne mingling with the salt of the sea—your presence was the essence of tranquillity.

How cruel it is that this wasn’t my reality. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve longed for those dreams—lying in my bed, patiently yearning to share this silence with you.

Deep down, I always knew they were just that—dreams. I knew the moment I opened my eyes, they would slip away unnoticed, like a fleeting lover in the night. And though it pierced my heart like a dagger—a pain I’ve carried into adulthood—I cherished every single moment you gifted me: the gentlest of smiles, the lingering scent of the sea in my bedroom, my love for you.

God, how I miss you. It’s maddening—I feel disturbingly hollow without you. Where the fuck have you gone? Why have you left me again? You know the darkness—it creeps up on me at night, threatening to swallow me whole.

The dreams I have now, in your absence—when you’re not there to hold me and exist within my psyche—are anything but sweet. They are dark, hollow, and filled with fear. Without you, sleep has become something I try to avoid entirely.

There is nothing within my them but darkness and the clinging scent of dampness, heavy and unpleasant. The empty streets ooze a sense of horror as I stand barefoot beneath the balcony where we once enjoyed the starry nights. I can feel the cold breeze on my skin—sharp, biting, and undeniably real.
Somewhere in the distance, I see a silhouette of a girl. The only features I can make out in the darkness are her scrawny arms and long, tangled hair. Too afraid to take a closer look—terrified of what I might find—I become a statue, rooted in place. Before I regain my ability to move, I am confronted by her screech—sharp enough to rattle my bones. In that instant, I feel something drip down my neck and onto my arms. The more I look, the more blood there is, yet in the dream, I can never tell where it comes from.

Then, as if compelled by some invisible force, I begin walking toward her. My legs refuse to listen to reason. No matter how desperately I beg them to stop or run the other way, they ignore my pleas. They just move, dragging me toward the girl—one whose face I have never seen, only the back of her. But what waits with her is far worse.

Sometimes, it’s a pack of bloody, dog-like creatures. Their teeth glint in the moonlight, their drool pooling as their rib bones jut from their sides like jagged shards of broken glass. The stench of my own excrement stings my nostrils as I try to move backward, desperate to return to where I came.

Then I notice a new presence. In the middle of it all stands an old woman, her skin draped over her bones like a leather dress, barely concealing her skeletal frame. Her sunken black eyes bear into me, drilling holes through my soul, while her matted hair clings damply to her face. And that smile—ominous and unrelenting—it haunts me even in my waking hours.

And my love, this is the moment I become painfully aware of my surroundings. Unable to move even a finger, I am trapped in the suffocating space between a dream and wakefulness. My nightly horrors refuse to release me, clinging to me like shadows birthed by my anxious mind. And oh how slowly they devour me, savouring every moment of my demise as I try to escape their raking claws on my skin. Each scar etched upon my arm is a cruel reminder of my helplessness.

This state has inspired countless works of art, like The Nightmare by Heinrich Füssli—a woman asleep, a demon perched upon her chest. That painting predates even the naming of this phenomenon, a time when such “demons” were thought to haunt us. But I know now that they are the offspring of my disorderly mind—a systematic violence against my sanity.

Man, I miss sleep.