He walked up behind and saw her writing again in that old banged up notebook.
“What? Writing another piece to make the young girls cry?” His friend’s laughed and high-fives were shared around the circle.
She closed her notebook. Her pen, serving as her bookmark.
“No. I used to write because I couldn’t cry. I let my paper be my eyes and the ink my tears. Now, I write to release. No one hears me when I talk but everyone reads when I write.”
With that she grabbed her things and walked away. His friends laughed at her but her words left an impression on their desired mark.