The Writer’s Gift
Elliot often wondered if his way of seeing the world was a gift or a burden. It wasn’t easy to carry the weight of imagined lives, to see so much in every small gesture. But he also knew it was what made him a writer.
He understood that writing wasn’t just about words—it was about attention. The art of observation wasn’t merely looking at the world; it was noticing the details most people ignored and giving them meaning. It was a way of honoring life, in all its ordinary, messy beauty.
Every writer usually would start a write-up with a poetic line on endless array of metaphors that goes like this _
"The street was busy with its usual symphony of life...heels clicking on the pavement, the hiss of a bus stopping, snippets of conversations floating through the air".
But for Elliot Hayes, the world was something else entirely. It wasn’t just sound and motion; it was texture, color, and rhythm. To him, the street wasn’t bustling; it was whispering...alive with stories hidden beneath the ordinary.
Elliot had always observed the world differently. While others moved swiftly, their eyes fixed on phones or their destinations, his gaze lingered. He didn’t just see the woman in the red coat with a black umbrella at the walk way, he noticed how her gloved hands tightened around her umbrella as though holding onto something far more significant than a pair of brief comfort. He noticed the crumpled corner of a political campaign poster sticking out of the street wall and wondered if it'd stick longer if they applied a little more adhesive or that it has simply stayed long enough and needed to be relieved of its "duties".
Every detail Elliot observed felt like a thread, and his mind instinctively wove them into stories.
---
That afternoon, Elliot walked into his usual corner table at a dimly lit café. He liked it here, half hidden...an introvert’s instinct, but with a perfect view of the room. His notebook lay open, the pages already filled with unfinished sentences and sketches of his imagination.
Today, his focus landed on a man sitting by the window...a man shadowed by his hat, assumingly in his 50s, had a neutral expression and probably could have been there few hours before Elliot walked in. The man’s hands was rested on the table, palms open, as though he were holding something invisible. His lips moved slightly, mouthing words Elliot couldn’t hear.
“Is he talking to someone who isn’t there?,” Elliot muttered under his breath, jotting down the observation. Was it grief? A memory? Or perhaps, a prayer? or is he simply thinking aloud?...He didn't have an answer.
Nearby, a young woman clutched her phone tightly, her fingers shaking. Her back was rigid, but her eyes darted toward the door every few seconds. She didn’t drink the coffee in front of her, but her spoon stirred it absent mindedly, creating small whirlpools in the creamy surface. Elliot guessed she was waiting for someone—someone she wasn’t sure would come.
And then there was the bartender behind the counter, who wiped the same spot over and over on the countertop, staring blankly at the clock. Elliot noticed the slight tremble in his jaw and the faint redness in his eyes. Perhaps his thoughts were far away, either replaying an argument he’d had that morning or a worry he just couldn’t shake off. "I was tempted to ask"...
Elliot writes furiously, his mind filling in the gaps that reality left blank.
---
For Elliot, observation was more than just watching—it was listening to the silences, sensing the unspoken, and piecing together the stories others carried but never told. He wasn’t always right, of course. The woman steadily staring at the door might not be anxious about a meeting; she could just be cold. The man at the window might not be mourning someone—he might simply be rehearsing a speech. But for Elliot, accuracy wasn’t the point. The act of imagining, of creating, was what mattered.
He believed every person had layers of complexity hidden beneath their surface. It wasn’t enough to notice what they did; he sought to understand why. And when the world didn’t provide answers, he invented his own.
A Story Unfolds
Later that day, Elliot returned home to his small apartment. He spread his notes across the kitchen table, pages full of observations and possibilities. He began to write.
The man at the window became a retired militarily officer, revisiting the memory of his last official duty, haunted by the lonely days ahead of him . The young woman transformed into an aspiring artist, waiting for her estranged father to show up after years of absence. And the weary barista? he became an artist, who was simply thinking about how he wants a life far away from the clinking of coffee cups.
These were the figment of his imagination.
By evening, Elliot had written their stories into existence. The café was no longer just a room filled with strangers...it was a universe of lives, connected by invisible threads of emotion, memory, and longing.
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