I've finished writing my first book. The following passage was an excerpt:
I looked back at her when she wasn't looking anymore. It hurt me more than I could take, seeing her with another man, looking happier than ever. I wanted to run away and shout until I run out of voice, until my vocal chord explodes. I really wanted to die, I really did. What have I done wrong that deserves this kind of torment? How I wish I could bring the past back, bring those days back, those days I spent with her — those days when he was mine.
So I gazed upon the food served on the table — they’re really delectable to the eye, made me wonder if they taste good as they appeared. Someone called my name and said "Would you be watching the concert with us?", the voice seemed to be coming somewhere far, penetrating through my consternation over the food. Then I searched the whole place and encountered a pair of penetrating dark eyes anticipating my answer, how could I ever forget her voice? How could I ever forget that voice that haunted me every night? The voice which whispered like a prayer every night? Oh I knew why, while I missed the voice so much, I tried hard, really hard to bury it at the deepest recess of my soul. Because I lost her before and I couldn't have her anymore. Not now. Not ever.
That was definitely a long night and I really wanted that night to end so I could sleep and wake up tomorrow thinking that that was just a nightmare, a bad, bad dream. I could hear Fra Lippo Lippi singing at the background – was it just an imagination? No, as if to mock me some more, the restaurant played a song that blatantly expressed what I was exactly feeling that very moment.