Lucie was a writer. She had dedicated her life to fiction. Every spare moment was spent in her room tapping away at her beloved typewriter which her brother James had gifted to her when she was eight, or scribbling notions in her leather bound notebook. Her pale hands were consistently blotted with ink and papercuts frequently adorned her fingertips.
Lucie spent her days chasing stories. She used her loved ones for inspiration, constantly nagging her friends and family for snippets of gossip which she churned into tales and fables. She rarely played a part within the drama, however. That was until she had met Sol.
Sol was the son of an alien commander. He had a troubled past, and his species were at war. He was perfect writing inspiration, however once Lucie got to know the alien, she found she didn't wish to write about him at all.
She didn't want to write about Sol and his struggles. She didn't want to write about the tall, brooding alien and his internal conflicts. All she wanted to do was to help Sol. She wanted to spend time with him, to help him tease out his worries until they no longer existed, and to help him find the pure, all consuming happiness that only seemed to exist within fiction.
Lucie knew that Sol probably wouldn't trust her good intentions, but she hoped that he would try. She didn't quite understand why she didn't want to write about him. It was rather unnerving.
Lucie just wanted to make Sol happy, and to ensure that his life was better and brighter than fiction.
