FOUR

"Done," I said, handing the last book back to them.

"Thank you, Mia." Both of them were overjoyed.

"You're really nice and kindhearted." One of them handed me a paper bag.

"What is this?"

"That's for you."

"It's okay, don't bother." I refused what they offered because I didn't want them to feel obligated just because of the favour I did for them.

“It's really for you, Mia. We didn't have the chance to give it to you earlier. Please take it." 

I just smiled, took the bag from her hand, and thanked them. Eventually, the rain subsided a bit. It was no longer violent, and even the thunder and lightning were gone. Suddenly, a car arrived and honked its horn. I thought it was my dad, but it wasn't.

"That's our ride. Do you want us to drop you off?" one of them asked me.

"Oh, no need. My house is nearby, right there." I pointed to the alley leading into our street. "And later, my dad will come by here from work," I added.

"Are you sure?" the other asked.

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you for this." I lifted the paper bag they had given me. "Take care of the both of you," I said, smiling.

"All right, we'll go ahead. You too, be careful," they answered with a smile and waved at me. 

I watched until their car was far away, only to realise that I was now left alone with this dumbass.

"Are you a writer?" I heard him ask me when my two readers left. But I didn’t answer him; I pretended that I didn’t hear what he said because I had no intention of talking to him. He wasn't important, and he didn't seem to have anything sensible to talk about, so I wasn't going to waste my saliva and time on him.

"Do you know that for me writers are liars?" 

That caught my attention, so I glared at him while he just smiled back at me. He seemed completely unbothered by what he was saying and how it made me feel. 

"All writers are liars and swindlers," he repeated, obviously trying to annoy me, especially since his smile had grown wider.

I couldn't stand it any longer, so I straightened up and faced him. If looks could kill, he would have dropped dead right then and there. The weather might have been cold, but what he said made my blood boil. I felt like my blood pressure was going to skyrocket because of him.

“Excuse me, Mister, you don't know what writers thought while writing their stories, so don't call them liars and cheaters just because you don't like their profession or because you don't like what they write,” I said angrily. I wanted to smack him with the things I was carrying until he lost consciousness.

“There is nothing wrong with my reason for calling them liars. And no matter what you say, I think the same thing about all writers and the stories they write. That won't change, and you're included. Writers are liars and deceivers because they write nothing but nonsense and lies.”

It felt as if he had just called me a liar and a cheater straight to my face.

“How dare you—”

“I said what I said.”

My head grew even hotter because of this man. He had the audacity to call me a liar and a deceiver when he didn't even know me. Did he know how hard it was to write a story just to make people happy? Of course not, because all he knew how to do was bully and be arrogant. He didn’t know me. He didn’t know the struggle I had, the night I kept awake just to create a story that inspired my readers. And yet he calls me a deceiver.

"FYI, Mister, I don't know you and you don't know me either, so don't call me a liar just because I'm a writer." The veins in my neck were practically popping, but I still tried my best not to shout. "Maybe you just lack love, and that's why you hate stories full of it."

“Hmph! What if I told you I do know you?” I fell silent at his words. "And I'm not mad at the stories, but at the people behind them."

"I don't care, because you just judged me for being a writer, just like you are doing right now."

“Nope! I really know you. Because all writers like you share the same traits.” I raised an eyebrow, my frown deepening. “Apart from being deceivers and liars, you are also afraid to face the truth. In other words, you are cowards who hide behind the words and letters you write.”

I remained silent at his last statement. I didn’t know why, but my heart suddenly pounded because of what he said. As the rain subsided a bit, he tossed the tarpaulin aside, shook out his clothes, and prepared to leave. But before he could walk away, he turned back to me.

"You can't answer. Why? Because it's true?" he asked, smirking.

"There is nothing true in what you said. Not a single thing you mentioned applies to me, and none of it is true," I retorted, raising an eyebrow at him.

"If you say so!" he said, stepping away. But he suddenly stopped and turned to face me one last time.

"Don't take what I said too seriously. You also judged me when you saw me holding your sister's hand, but I didn't take it personally or get hurt. Now we're even—both judgemental and being judged. I was just throwing your judgement back at you, and I have no intention of wounding your pride. Unless, of course, what I said is true," he said as he finally walked away.

Fuck you!

You don't know how much of an effect your words have on me. You don’t know that a part of it actually hit close to home, and right now, it feels like everything you said wasn't meant for all writers but for me alone.