Ishara had just begun to type her plotline into an empty word document when the doorbell rang. Not a great start, admittedly. She grudgingly climbed out of her comfortable chair and trudged to the door. 
One look through the peephole and she was jumping back. 
It was that guy.
Again. He was also wearing yellow again. Which, coincidentally, matched with the yellow pair of pajamas she had donned for the day. 
It gave her fresh ammunition for new plotlines and scenes. Withstanding the assault of her own creativity, Ishara wondered how to deal with the same situation. At least, this time he would leave the parcel at the door...?
One minute passed. 
Five minutes passed.
Ten minutes passed. 
Ishara realized he was not leaving. Not without her having to open the door and stretch her arms out again. She prepared herself with an encouraging thought and a deep breath. 
The door clicked open. His amused eyes went to the outstretched arm. Just like a week ago.
"Your hands are very pretty and I'd love to gaze at them but I was hoping to catch sight of your face too."
She quickly pulled back her arms and shut the door. Her heart just went whack, whack, what the hell was happening. 
"Just keep the damn parcel down and leave, please." She muttered. 
"I heard that!" said the cheery voice outside. "Not going to do that but I heard that!"
Ishara mumbled curses. This was what she had been most afraid of. She hated talking to people. She hadn't always detested it but her every attempt at doing it had only made her turn away for the worse. 
A minute passed before further explanation came. 
"I'm sorry if I seem pushy. I just wanted to ask for a review on the toast since you seem to love it so much. I added a little whipped cream and peach jam on the toast."
Ishara stepped closer to the door. Was he the one making her toast every week?
As if having read her mind, he replied, "I'm the one making it every week for you. Won't you come out and tell me how it is?"
Ishara stayed indoors. Her heart, previously fluttering and creating chaos, had now decided to uphold it's dignity and calm down. After a minute, a seed of courage planted in her heart. Maybe it was something about the gentility in the man's voice. Or maybe, it was her tired of being all by her lonesome. 
Her heart told her to go out there and try. 
Try again. It wouldn't hurt more than it had already done. Just a little attempt before she retreated to the shadows. At least, then, she wouldn't regret not having tried talking to him.
Her mind had firmly decided on the heart's wish. She held on to the handle, taking a breath. 
Suddenly, she heard her parcel placed gently on the floor.
"You don't have to force yourself. I will leave."
Footsteps trudged away, defeated. Ishara let out a spluttered breath. 
She had only just decided to talk to the guy and he just...left?
No, that wouldn't do. Ishara, on some unexplained impulse, stepped out of her house and looked out the railing. She looked around before letting her eyesight wander down, catching sight of a dazed man gazing at her. 
He was plopped on his motorcycle, helmet in hand as he stared at her, wide-eyed. 
She stared back at him. Seeing him through the peephole had nothing on seeing him clearly, right there, in front of her. 
He really was a fucking handsome man. 
Her lips parted for a moment before closing shut. Her heart dropped, as they simply stared at each other. She turned and ran back in (not before picking up the parcel, of course) and shut the door, firmly.
Then, she slumped against the door and let out a long drawn sigh. 
Why hadn't she told him that she really enjoyed his toasts?
More importantly, what had she been thinking, trying to talk to a stranger?

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