Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Kayla
Melissa’s apartment is quiet. Not in a bad way, just … still.
It feels predictable and safe, which somehow makes it worse.
I sit at the edge of the couch with my laptop open in front of me, the blank document staring back, like it’s waiting for something I don’t have.
It’s been open for twenty minutes, maybe longer.
I haven’t typed a single word, not even a sentence.
I exhale slowly and run a hand through my hair, leaning back against the couch.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Just start.”
That’s always been the trick. Don’t overthink it, don’t plan, just write something—anything.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, then settle back into my lap.
Nothing comes. Not a line or an idea, not even a bad sentence I could fix later.
I stare at the screen harder, like that might force something out of me, but it doesn’t.
My brain won’t go there. It won’t stay in the story or in anything that doesn’t lead right back to him.
Sawyer.
The way he looked at me. His voice changed when he said I used him.
My chest tightens.
I shut the laptop halfway, then open it again immediately.
No.
I’m not doing that. I’m not shutting down over this.
I push myself forward again, planting my elbows on my knees.
“New book,” I say quietly. “Start something new.”
That’s what you do. That’s what writers do when something doesn’t work.
You move on and start fresh with new characters—a new story.
Something that doesn’t feel so tied to everything that just fell apart.
I take a breath and open a new document.
My fingers move slowly this time, with much hesitation.
I type a sentence and read it, then delete it immediately.
“No,” I whisper.
That’s not it.
I try another line with a different tone.
Delete … again and again.
Every attempt feels wrong, like I’m reaching for something that isn’t there anymore.
I lean back again, frustration building in my chest.
“Come on,” I mutter. “This is what you do.”
It’s always been what I do, except now there’s nothing because every idea I reach for feels like a cheap version of something I already had. Something I lost.
My throat tightens.
I close the laptop completely this time and let it sit there in my lap.
I can’t do it, not like this. Not when everything in me feels off.
I place it on the coffee table, thinking maybe distance will help.
A half hour later, I realize that it doesn’t because the problem isn’t the laptop. It’s me.
I let out a heavy sigh as I sink back into the couch.
Now, the thought I’ve been avoiding finally settles in. I don’t just need a new book. I need a new start. And for the first time in years … I don’t know how to do that.
By the time the sun starts setting, I’m still in the same spot.
Same couch, same position … just thinking, which leads back to the same place every time.
Sawyer.
I shift slightly, pulling my knees closer to my chest, trying to make myself smaller, like that might quiet everything down. But I can’t stop replaying it.
The argument and how his expression changed the moment he decided what I had done wasn’t something he could forgive.
I swallow hard. That’s the part that sticks. Seeing him shut down behind his eyes and knowing it won’t come back.
I try to tell myself it makes sense. That anyone would react that way.
I should’ve known better.
I should’ve told him.
Instead, I just wrote and assumed he’d understand.
A small, humorless laugh escapes me.
“Good job,” I mutter.
I drop my head back against the couch and stare at the ceiling. Now the reality of it settles in.
I lost the book and my publisher. But that’s not what hurts.
Not really.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. I can’t pretend otherwise.
I lost him.
The realization lands heavier than anything else. Not the career or the opportunity, but him.
The late nights and stupid arguments. The way he’d look at me like I was slightly insane, but somehow still worth dealing with. The way he’d pull me closer without thinking when I fell asleep.
The way everything felt … steady when I was with him …
It’s gone because of me.
I swallow hard, blinking against the sudden burn in my eyes.
I don’t cry easily—I never have. But this? This feels different. The kind of hurt that doesn’t explode.
It just sits there.
I let out a slow breath and push myself upright again. Sitting here isn’t fixing anything. Nothing is.
I reach for my phone without really thinking and scroll through my messages, stopping on his name.
My thumb hovers over it, just for a second.
I could text him. Explain again. Beg and plead for his forgiveness.
I lower my hand slowly, locking the screen and setting the phone back down. Chasing him right now won’t change what he believes.
That settles in slowly and painfully … but clearly.
I lean back again, staring out at the darkening room. Now there’s nothing left to distract from it.
No writing. No plan. No next step.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t know what comes next.
But I do know one thing.
If I had to choose again—the book or him—I’d still choose him.
Every time.
Even if it means I never get him back.