I’ve just begun writing. My first book was an eruption of expression resulting from the suppression of two decades of yearning to become a writer. But now, as I embark on writing my second book, I want to refine my writing skills and become a better writer. So I gave myself fifteen awesome writing drills — no shortcuts, no cheating. Here is the first one.

Exercise 1 — POV Purity & Sensory Anchoring

Goal: Absolute discipline — no POV violations, no floating camera. Build trust through strict sensory filtering.

Prompt: Packing a suitcase after a breakup — the other person is in the next room, silent.

Target Length: 1,000 words

I can hear her bare feet shuffling across the spare bedroom upstairs. Maybe she will come down and stop me from leaving just before I am out the door. Maybe all this is just an elaborate joke, or maybe not. But wait a second, why am I the one leaving the apartment? I found the place, put down the deposit, and even paid the first month’s rent. Yes, but then she also gave me the second rent, and we split the costs so that I wouldn’t have too much on me.

This suitcase is far too small for my stuff, maybe I could go and ask her if she has one to spare. That would get us talking once again, and then I could convince her that this breakup is a bad idea. Yes, I could do that, but I need to make it look convincing enough. Let me get all my clothes in the suitcase first, and then leave a few shirts on the bed; it will look convincing then.

This shirt, this one she bought for me last December when we were at the street sale markets. That was a gorgeous day, and the streets were filled with people. The street shops had just turned on their lights, golden orbs, and fairy lights; the streets shone aureate. We walked hand in hand, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears. I can still hear her soft laughter in my ears every time I cracked a joke. And then, suddenly, it began snowing — the first snow of the season — and we stood there in the middle of the busy street, kissing. We were in love. We were… When did that change? What happened to us?

Oh, there is that bottle of Bleu de Chanel that I have been looking for. How did it end up here in the bottom drawer?

This smells, this smells of us. Why are we breaking up? Why doesn’t she want me in her life?

She came in a few seconds ago, wearing that red dress of hers, that old one that fits her well, makes her look sexy, and asked me where I finally found the perfume bottle. I choked even as I said yes. Could she see that I had been crying? My eyes were moist, and I am sure they are red and swollen too. I have been crying all along as I packed my bags. But she said nothing. Nothing! She didn’t ask me if I was crying, or if she even knew I was crying, or if she was sure of it. If she already knew, then she didn’t even care to console me or tell me it was going to be okay. Nothing, she just stood there, stared at me for a few seconds, waiting for me to say something more than yes, and when I didn’t say anything else, she just left. How could someone be so heartless? We have been living with each other for two years, and that one gets fond of even their pillow in that much time. She just excised me out of her life, like I was a growth or an unwanted mole. Or maybe she thinks of me as a cancer. I haven’t had a job for a while now. Perhaps it’s that. These women, they say that they don’t care if the man earns less than them, but from within they are all still wired traditional, calculative, cunning, and unsympathetic. I hate her.

Now, look here, everything fits neatly into the suitcase, and there is still space to spare. Even my woolen socks, the ones made from coarse wool, the ones we bought together in the mountains last year.

I have been sitting here touching and smelling everything, the bed, where we slept, made love, her clothes, the way they smell, her sweaty t-shirts, her makeup drawer, her paintings, the ones she sketched on that faded yellow paper she’d been saving up, and the pearl pendant I bought for her last summer. I cannot seem to stop, but I must go now. It is time.

Now what do I do? What the hell am I going to do? I don’t know. I am crying again. I need to become like her — heartless and cold — but how?

I should go upstairs and tell her goodbye, and maybe we could hold each other one last time, even make love one last time. I miss the way she smells. Maybe I could slip that red dress off her one last time and make mad love to her. Maybe.

My suitcase is by the door. I am wearing my shoes. I tried to be as loud as I could, but she didn’t seem to notice. Maybe this breakup is for the best. Why should I spend my life with an uncaring, hardhearted creature like her?

‘I am leaving,’ I just shouted out to her. She replied. I can hear coming down.

There she is. There is no emotion at all on her face. Maybe she will tell me if I have learned my lesson, and then we will perhaps hug and kiss and laugh about it. It was her way of teaching me, making me think about what life would be like without her, and how I was taking her for granted.

‘Goodbye,’ that’s all she said. And then shook my hand! Not even a hug. I am now out on the street. It is freezing outside and I don’t know where to go. I could go and ask her to take me back. Pathetic! I hate myself! I could go to Michael’s, but he is still pissed about the last time I fought with him. I could go to Vanessa, but frankly, I am not ready to see that ‘I told you so’ face of hers. Ravi, I could go to his place for the night.

It is snowing harder now. The street lamps are invisible except for the golden halo surrounding their tops. There is rime on my beard, and my nose is partly frozen. It is as if the gods knew I was going to leave home and then, just for fun, turned up the knob on ‘the worst day of my life!’