The Writer shut herself in her room.
It was not like the she was hiding from someone--she doesn't even know a lot of people to hide from anyway. No. She was not hiding like a coward. It wasn't cowardice and it was more like she's just avoiding someone.
Or some people.
The Artist had her friends over and stayed inside her room since morning. Something about a project they need to complete before the deadline. So all seven of them, including the Artist, were making a lot of noises and being rowdy – the Writer even heard them debating about a sorcery that is drawing a perfect circle in one hand and one try.
The Writer wasn't fond of an unorganized environment. Sure the Artist's room is a mess but never did the Artist caused any commotion. And the so-called mess, even if she didn't say it to her flatmate's face, can be quite artistic that can make anyone go 'wow' in an instant. The scattered pens, pencils, colors, and even the frayed bed; it really defines the Artist's persona.
A messy but amazing artwork.
Yet not all artists are like her flatmate. The so-called friends of her flatmate were... unique. If the Writer would describe them in one word. She wasn't one to judge but with the attitude like a pack of wolf pups, she decided to stay inside her room and immerse herself with her writing and music before she stabs someone with her pen.
But as if the goddess Sága ordered the faithful Writer to stop and rest, her stomach rumbled loudly; crying out for the nutrients she forgot to take since morning. Checking on the digital clock of her laptop, she noted how it was already high noon and she haven't eaten breakfast yet.
The Writer set her hunger aside in favor of avoiding the visitors. But the recent 'growling stomach, hidden pantry' episode in her stomach was firm in forcing her to find some food. Survival instincts, she mused and went out of her room, heading towards the kitchen.
As soon as the Writer was done rummaging the refrigerator for food, she realized the one fact that she had forgotten. An obvious thing that she felt stupid to not realize sooner. That what was inside the refrigerator, all raw cooking ingredients, were obviously pointing the one thing she couldn't do.
The Writer can't cook.
Usually, it was the Artist who cooks. From pasta to steak; the Artist was the one cooking for the both of them and it was Delicious! With a capital D. The Writer just offered her slight assistance and last time she tried cooking – scrambled eggs and sunny side up – the fire alarm went off and their land lord forbid her to even touching the stove. The Artist never forgot the incident and called it 'breakfast for Hades' wherein everything was on fire and the food was black as night.
Sighing in defeat, the Writer checked the island counter to see if there are any leftovers or anything prepared by her flatmate.
There wasn't any.
This made the Writer curious.
Every cooking utensil they have were left untouched. The island counter, the stove, and the sink were clean. As if no one touched them all morning.
Knowing what might be the cause of the cleanliness, the Writer let out a displeased sigh and went back to rummaging the refrigerator. She hoped she could find anything she could 'possibly' prepare. "It won't be that hard..." she said softly, confident that she won't be calling the fire department anytime soon. Only the goddess Sága could tell.
Several minutes later...
Two cups of instant noodles; melted.
"I guess I shouldn't have placed them inside the microwave..." whispered the Writer.
A plate of blackened mush.
"Microwave can't cook eggs..." the Writer mumbled.
Indescribable bowl of assorted unevenly chopped vegetables with a mixture of unknown dressing that can be compared to tar.
"Soy sauce, vinaigrette, and mayonnaise mixture isn't edible I guess..."
Defeated, the Writer went back to her room and took the matter of food to the professionals. With her mobile phone in hand, she dialed the number she was accustomed to that usually come to her rescue when she called for food-related help.
"Hello, is this the Pizza Planet?"