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I am not happy - not truly - if I am not writing or telling a story, even if few - if any - have ever read them. And yet I am unable to write, and in turn, unable to be truly happy. I need to write to be happy and able to love; but, so too, do I need love to be able to write. What will I do? What can I do? These words, the words she had spoken to her only confidant - her diary - came back to haunt her as she stood at the window staring out into the blackened night with unseeing eyes. She was a bestselling author, having sold thousands of copies of her works; works written under the pseudonym Kara Samuels, but inside she was still Aine Stewart, the scared and hurting child she’d always been.

Author's Note

I wrote this for a contest I entered..........