20. Dannica #3
I pause, considering. “No. Yes. Maybe. Maybe everything. This moment, how I feel, what just happened… and all the chaos that led me here.”
“Sounds perfect,” he says, his gaze holding mine as his voice lowers.
For a brief moment, I hesitate, wondering if I should share every detail with him. But there’s an openness in his expression, a willingness to listen. I take a deep breath and begin to type, letting the words flow freely.
LOCAL WOMAN TAKES LEAP OF FAITH. STARTS WRITING.
The letters appear on the screen, and with each keystroke, I feel lighter, more empowered.
I write about the feelings that had overwhelmed me earlier, the intensity of our connection, the way he looked at me, the sensations that coursed through my body.
I describe the warmth of his skin, how electric his touch is, the shared laughter that lingered in the air like a melody.
I let my thoughts spill onto the page, unedited and raw, and it’s liberating.
Moments pass, and he sets the coffee down with an egg and bacon sandwich.
“Open wide,” he says as he lifts the bread to my lips.
“You gonna feed me now?”
“Looks like you’re on a roll.”
It’s true, I am. So, he patiently feeds me small bites of the sandwich while I write. He watches me, a soft smile gracing his lips as I pour my heart out. I can feel his energy surrounding me, lifting me, encouraging me to dig deeper.
“Keep going,” he whispers, and I can hear the pride in his voice. “You’re doing great.”
Coming from someone whose photos have been on magazine covers and every billboard in LA, it probably shouldn’t matter this much.
But it does.
I look up, catching his gaze. There’s something powerful in that moment, a shared understanding that transcends words. It’s as if we’re in sync, two souls navigating this journey together.
I continue typing, feeling the rhythm of my thoughts synchronize with the beats of my heart. I write about the weight of expectations, the fear of failure, and the exhilaration of taking risks. I pour my dreams onto the page, crafting them into a narrative that reflects my truth.
And maybe that’s what hits me the hardest: the realization that I stopped letting myself dream like this somewhere along the way.
At some point, the practical parts of life got louder than the hopeful ones.
The diner needed help. Bills needed paying.
Grandma needed someone dependable. Mom needed someone steady.
And little by little, without even noticing it was happening, I started treating the parts of myself that wanted more like they were childish things I was supposed to outgrow.
Writing became something I squeezed into corners instead of something I let take up space.
Something private.
Something embarrassing to want this badly.
But sitting here now, with my fingers flying over the keyboard and Teddy watching me like this matters, I realize how hungry I’ve been for it. For this feeling. For creating something that feels honest and alive and fully mine.
My throat tightens unexpectedly.
Part of me convinced myself wanting this kind of life made me selfish.
And maybe it never did.
The words flow like a river, unimpeded and wild.
I lose track of time, swept away by the current of my thoughts.
I write about the beauty of vulnerability, how it’s intertwined with creativity, how it makes us human.
I embrace the chaos of my love life, the mishaps, the moments that felt like sitcom episodes, and I realize that all of it is worth capturing.
As I write, I glance at him occasionally, finding inspiration in the way he watches me, his eyes filled with warmth and admiration. It’s a reminder of the connection we shared a moment ago. The connection we still share.
After what feels like hours, I finally pause, letting out a satisfied breath. I look at the screen, the words sprawled before me like a tapestry of my thoughts and emotions.
“Wow,” I say, feeling a mix of disbelief and accomplishment. “I actually did it.”
“You did,” he agrees, his voice full of pride. “And it’s amazing.”
I can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “It’s just a rough draft, but it feels… real.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” he says. “It’s your story, and you get to tell it however you want.”
I nod, the weight of his words sinking in. It’s liberating to realize that I have the power to shape my narrative, to share my truth without fear of judgment.
“I think I want to keep going,” I admit, looking back at the screen. “There’s so much more to explore.”
“Then do it,” he encourages. “Write your heart out.”
“Maybe later. First, I’d like to thank you properly.”
“Yeah?” He lifts an eyebrow.
I stand, moving an inch toward him. “Scoot your chair back, please.”
He grins. “I’m not gonna lie, I don’t know where this is going, but I do like where my imagination is taking it.”
He scoots back and I straddle him, pressing my lips firmly against his.
“Hmmm, so far so good. But in my imagination, I thought we’d be doing this naked.”
A giggle escapes me. Not the sexiest sound but hey. “That so? Let’s see if we can make that happen.”