_If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die._

Lila Montgomery was a writer.

Liam Anderson was her muse.

Rainy, gray days were spent together, in proximity at least. Lila would ponder in their bedroom, her bony fingers hovering over the typewriter, waiting for the perfect inspiration to manifest itself; Liam would often be in the kitchen, preparing a warm meal for the two of them.

_Lovers. That’s what they were._

The damn word sometimes felt foreign to Lila, and everyday she felt like her heart was slipping further away from it.

One particular rainy day, where the rain was coming so hard it pooled into the roads, rising up to the sidewalks, Lila sat in front of her desk for the fourteenth time that day.

Rain pounded on the roof, with each loud thud, she could feel her irritation exponentially reaching.

Lila’s scarlet-red stained lips pursed in frustration, her shaking hands lingered carefully above the typewriter. To her, writing came easily; a secondhand nature to her— but **_only_** when she had inspiration.

Writing was supposed to have been her hobby, her passion, her pastime. Now it became a chore, and the bottled up burn out was manifesting itself physically.

Reddish purple marks came from digging her nails too deep into her palms. It was hard not to rupture into a million screams, especially when her publisher was relying upon her.

Today, her words were flowing like tar, and to that, her words were not flowing. Her mind blanked, she had no clue how to start her novel, it was stumping her.

In her progressing work, there were two main characters. At least that’s what her publisher told her. “I need a story about more than just one main character, your stories are too lonely.”

But the thing was, she _liked_ being alone. Which she would’ve retorted had it not been for her boyfriend, Liam, who was in the room with her when she had took the business call.

She loved him, _of course_, but Lila tended to do her best work when she was on her own.

Here she sat blankly at her typewriter. She had an outline, but what would the characters be like? What was their relationship? How did they meet?

The smallest glimpse of sunlight from the window peaked inside, the rain was beginning to subside. It annoyed her. Her apartment was always too bright. That’s why her room was plastered with the most edgy, dark accents and pieces from vintage thrift stores.

She grunted as she pounced on the window drapes, shutting them completely to allow the darkness consume her. This was when she worked best: alone and left in the shadows.

Okay. She brought elbows back and onto the front of her desk, tainted palms stroking her shoulders soothingly. The room was silent, save for the distant stove sound from Liam in the kitchen across from their bedroom.

Her dark brown brows furrowed in concentration, her bottom scarlet lip bruised from her bite, yet the more she tried to summon her thoughts, the more elusive they became. A fog was certainly settling in her mind.

Lila’s pale fingers began tapping the wooden desk impatiently. She could feel that same anger bubbling up.

_Oh wait! What if the two ended up—_

Knock, knock, KNOCK!

The sudden loud pounding yanked her out of the trance, as she jolted out of her chair.

“Liam!” Lila cheered gleefully. ”I’m so glad you’re here.” She stepped forward and give him a big hug and embrace, trying to avoid the tray of dinner he held with his right arm.

Annoyed she was at the grand interruption, however, seeing Liam had thrusted the inspiration she had been needing this whole time! Her nebula eyes glittered with a devilish mischievousness.

“You’re just the thing I’ve been missing! I’m writing a LOVE story and I need your help.”

His smile is warm and he places the tray carefully on their bed. “How can I help, Writer Lila?” His question earnest and gentle.

“Just stand still a second, and don’t look until I tell you to. I’ll be right back!”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Neighbors that night would have heard odd noises thrown around, heinous profanities, and even some distorted screams. Good thing Lila didn’t have any.

The blood washed off her knife with ease. She never truly cared for him. He was too kind, too eager to please, and again, Lila wasn’t one for companionship.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_“You will be my greatest inspiration. My Liam, my muse,” _she hummed sweetly.

Her words had been addressed to a life-sized black bag that was rotting right under her desk, a retched thing that had began smelling odd. Then, as quickly as her smile faded, her head snapped away from her _Lover_, ready to write the novel of a lifetime.

And so she began to write, “_immortalizing”_ Liam in the process.