I Write Sins Not Tragedies

Staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of him, he mindlessly taps his desk with the enclosed tip of a pen, held loosely by his rhythmically moving hand. He had been sitting on that same desk area for hours now, the coffee at the side now cold, possibly contaminated with dust. His eyes have grown tired from moving and reading too much, and his right hand was now covered in traces of the blue ink he used. He snaps out of his stupor, and starts to write nonsensical words that had just popped out of his head.

A tall, dashing man stood in shock as he watched the love of his life get pulled away from him. He wanted to move, so desperately wanted to reach out and take her back, but his feet suddenly felt like they were held down by shackles made out of metal and stone, and his chest started to throb in pain. Whether it be physical or metaphorical, he wasn't sure, but he knew what he felt. He was devastated. After the shocking minutes had passed, his knees buckled, and he fell to the ground. 

"How could he," he thought. "when I thought of him as a brother? He knows how much I love her."

He stops writing, and stares at the scribbles on the paper. It made sense. It formed a story. He smiled for the first time in a while, and started writing again.

The best man hurriedly stood when he fell to his knees, and immediately offered him words of encouragement. The man looked up at his friend, and offered a pained smile.

"I'm fine," the man said. "She'll be back. She just needs to get some air."

His friend stares at him with an expression that only screamed disbelief. Losing all sense of compassion, he pulls the groom up to his feet, and drags him out of the room. The guests soon followed, curious about the day's events. The double doors were forcefully pushed, anger surging in the best man's veins. Turning a corner, he spots a white veil on the floor, and follows the trail of discarded articles of clothing, until they finally encountered the white-dressed run-away bride, and another man in a shaggy trench coat. The groom felt devastated, his fears and denials coming ten-fold. With a heavy heart, he tries to push away from the growing crowd, but the best man forces him to stay put.

"Don't you have anything to say to her?" The best man asked.

The groom hesitantly shook his head, before glancing up, tears welling up in his eyes.

"..Sorry," the bride said. And-

The author stops once more, and observes his work. He was satisfied with it, and ends with a simple "fin" at the end of the page.

Author's Note

I, uh, had no idea what I was doing. I was simply going with the flow.