She Was Infertile

She was scribbling something on the paper, occasionally lowering her head to read what she had written. Other than that, she had also been spending a good chunk of time looking far out into the distance. No one could tell what she was looking for or what she was thinking about. 

It was truly a sight to behold, as the sunshine blanketed her in a soft and ethereal glow, shining on the pen in her hand, and the still-warm cup of coffee on the table. The nib of the pen glided on the surface of the paper, producing a single sentence. 

This is the start of a longing.