I have no idea. I don’t even know where to start.
“Damn it,” I mutter to myself. Why did I ever think creative writing would be a good class for me to take? An elective that was supposed to bolster up my class credits this year might end up being my undoing.
I stretch and take a deep breath before resting my hands on the keyboard. Maybe if I just start typing, something will happen.
With my fingers on the keys, I wait… But still, there’s nothing.
Why am I so bad at this? I’ve just been asked to write a ten-thousand-word fictional story of my choice. I could do whatever the hell I want, but why does that almost feel too big?
Do I even have a story to tell?
Will people even like it?
My chest tightens, and fear takes hold.
See. This is just proof. You can’t even write a simple story. What are you good at?
I try to push away the negative thoughts and think about all the things my therapist said back when I was home.
“Separate yourself from that voice. Breathe, ground yourself, and return to your work without judgment.”
It all makes perfect sense, but then why do I feel on the verge of tears just thinking about it?
I take a deep breath and pick up my phone, ready to look through the pictures Zach sent me last night to distract myself from all of those thoughts.
When the screen lights up, my stomach sinks.
I shouldn’t have looked. What a fucking moron I am sometimes.
Unknown:Did your boyfriend tell you about the team outing to The Rhinestone Rodeo last night? The guy’s pretty kinky.
Unknown: While you’re there, you might want to ask him about Hailey.
I don’t breathe. I just delete the messages. Block, report, and pretend it didn’t happen, but it’s getting harder to do. The messages are coming more often since Zach’s been away, and I can’t deny how much harder I’m finding it with him not here. Without his reassurance, my mind spins and I start to think things that I know aren’t true.
Zach loves me. He’s not Jamie. He never will be… but then it hits. The thought that I felt the same way about Jamie until I found out the truth.
“No. You’re not doing this to yourself,” I whisper under my breath as I toss my phone onto the table.
Then I pick up my coffee cup and take a sip, letting the warmth seep into my palms and chest. Sadly, it doesn’t do a damn thing to stop the chill from crawling up my spine.
How much longer can I do this and pretend it doesn’t hurt? How many times can I change my number before I admit it doesn’t do a damn thing? Whoever’s doing this isn’t going to stop, no matter what I do.
“Oh, yeah. That’s definitely his girlfriend.”
I hear a conversation from behind me, and there’s something about the sharpness that tells me it’s about me.
“How long has the team been away now? A week?”
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
Another long, slow sip of my coffee.
I refuse to look or react.
“Yeah, did you see the videos of the team at The Rhinestone Rodeo?”
“Hilarious! That brunette looked like she was having the time of her life. Think Evans is cheating with her too?”