Evelyn Robinson

Evelyn Robinson

I write fictions. Sometimes it’s good.

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in Writing
One Morning

One Morning

I wake up to the sound of the alarm. After snoozing it three times, I manage to gain back my conscience. I feel like shit. The room is dark. There’s no one sitting on the edge of the bed. There’s no more of that messy bed hair, looking up at the sky while giving me that sickening sweet greeting. “Good morning, Scott.” But the room is dead silent. Among the stink of sweat lingers a faint scent of vanilla. Hers. How I resent it. Her toothbrush still stays beside mine. I open the window and throw it as far as I can. The scent of vanilla even thicker inside the cramped bathroom. The shelf used to have many bottles of liquids I don’t even know what they’re supposed to be. Now...

in Writing
Night Thoughts

Night Thoughts

Have you ever woken up, regretting that you ever met me? Because I never did. But I go to sleep every night with thoughts that you may have.n The other side of the bed is empty and cold. I dare not to touch it, because your scent still lingers like flower on summer day. At night I close my eyes and can feel the faint of your body heat cutting through the night air. Like an amputee feeling an itch where their limbs are missing. Phantom limbs. Where are you now? Can you still recall me from somewhere I cannot reach? Are you still waking up — if you ever sleep or even awake — calling my name from where no voice can echo? Because I can still hear your voice like a soft music...