You sat there alone, 

quiet and expressionless. 

I often wondered if you had picked up a pen,

but more often I wondered if it was a knife.

You got up one day during a lecture;

you didn't come back.

I knew your weapon of choice, 

though we only spoke once.

You came back to class the next day,

with a smile on your face.

I smiled with you,

as i breathed in a sigh of relief that you were also still breathing.

You came up to me after that class,

and gave me a folded up piece of paper.

You wrote:

If I only wrote once every word would matter?

My life is my white blank page and everything that happens is a dark black pen.

Though I cannot erase my markings,

I can always write new stories.