In a later life, he would stroke the hair from her face and speak of family, of a house and children and dogs (of all strange things). His voice was wistful and soft, and she could pretend enough to believe that she wanted those things too. Perhaps she did. Perhaps he was the only man in whose eyes she could see her future. She wanted to want them. She wanted to want them because HE wanted them, and because she wanted HIM. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to want him badly enough to be a better woman than she was, to live up to the hope he cherished in his heart. But in the end she was nothing more than a coward and those heartbroken eyes would haunt her for the rest of her life.From a bit of backstory on a character in my novel, except this backstory is turning into a back-novella
Sometimes it’s good to write things for yourself that you know will never get published.