Page 9 of Rewriting the Story

Moving back for good felt like the only option. Plus, I had nothing keeping me in London besides my job, and I can be employed anywhere. Though leaving the job I originally left the States for wasanothertopic I went in circles about, my therapist reminded me that though the opportunity was great, it wasn't worth it if I wasn't the best version of myself.

I had barely moved up the ladder over the two years I was in London. The decision to leave it all behind was difficult, but ultimately, it felt like the best option.

Though, nothing is the same. I know it’s not going to be. I know it’s going to be awkward, confusing, and uncomfortable, my routine in London all out of whack. But I can’t spend the rest of my life afraid to fix my mistakes, and I can’t keep missing out on these huge moments of my friends’ lives, only able to see some of it through social media.

I feel like a stranger coming back to this place I used to know like the back of my hand. Only, it didn't change; I did. The first time I was truly on my own—everything I had thought I needed—and my entire life crumbled. Now, I’m running back to my friends.

I wonder if they missed me how I’ve missed them in the hard moments. I wonder if they think I’m coming to this wedding just to bolt again after. I wonder if Paige is the only one who still believes in me, or if the invitation was a last ditch effort she thought wouldn't work. I wonder if I’m a person still worth missing.

I wonder if he misses me.

The thought pops into my head before I can stop it. Not wanting to relive the memories of him that echo in my mind, I turn my music up as loud as it can go.

Another wave of turbulence hits, and I’m sure this plane ride is a metaphor for my life—violent jerks of discomfort followed by a steady motion.

I sigh heavily as the next song on my playlist comes on before checking how much longer I have up in the air. Only four more hours to go, and I’m sure in that time, I’ll be trying and failing to come up with things to say about my diagnosis and how fucking sorry I am for leaving them all behind.

The consequences of my own actions have once again decided to punch me in the face, and I’m going to sit here and own it for once.

I fucked up, and I have to fix it.

No. I’mgoingto fix it—even if it killsme.

3

“If I can’t write, then who am I? Is all I’ll ever be an artist with no medium to pour my scars into?” —Untitled Henry Hayes Manuscript

Beingawriterwhocan’t write is arguably the worst career move of all time.

What does it mean when the words just stop flowing? Does that mean it’s over? Will I ever be able to string more than three mediocre words together on a blank page? Will any of the words I attempt to write even make sense?

Anything I type immediately gets deleted, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get anything worth a damndown. I wish I could do something other than be delusional for a living, but it’s what I love. I chose to sit down one day and write the book for a reason. That’s the one thing I’ve always believed about life: everything happens for a reason.

Those five words have been my motto since I was young. My father always said it to me, and after his accident that almost took him from us, he reminded us of it every single day. He’s fine now, but when I was young, it terrified me thinking my dad was going to die and I wouldn't get a chance to say goodbye.

I like to think writing makes me feel better, but in reality, I think it makes me feel worse. Because sometimes, I don’t want to look on the bright side of things. Sometimes, I want to complain, cry, scream, and rage like everyone else. I’ve only ever done that once in my life, and that’s not a memory I want to revisit.

But that isn’t who I am anymore. I’m more of a suffering in silence type of guy, which is why I have no friends—according to my younger sister and only friend, Mitch. I’m twenty-five years old, and my best friend is someone I met through work. He is quite literally all I have besides my family.

As I stare at the email from my publisher, reading every word over again, I start to question if I can even write in the first place. How is it that they’re this excited to see the pages I haven't written yet? I know I’m a little behind, but I swear, every time I open my email, I have something else from them reminding me how excited they are for my draft to be submitted.

I’m well aware first drafts are supposed to suck, but out of the thirty chapters I have outlined, none of them are complete. I don’t even think I could call them chapters, just scarcely written words on random pages floating throughout my manuscript.

I don’t know why I can’t get words down on the page. This has never happened to me before, and you’d think with all the success I had with my first two books, the third would flow out of me.

That’s not the case, though. Book three has been the biggest climb yet, and I’ve barely started up this mountain. Something is keeping my legs from moving.

I reread the email for the twentieth time before my phone rings, and I pick it up, welcoming the distraction when I see Mitch’s name flash across the screen.

“Hello?”

“Are you out of breath? Why are you out of breath? Is everything okay?” he says across the line. I guess I’d call him my best friend, even if he is myonlyfriend. We try to talk every day, even if it’s for a short conversation.

One time, I missed his call by like two minutes, and he freaked out on me. Mitch is almost too nice of a guy. He’s always worried about something, whether it be his deadline, his sales, his friends, his family. He’s probably worried every second of every day, and I don’t know how he manages to get anything done. All I do is worry about getting this manuscript done, and it hasn't helped me push it along.

“I’m fine, dude. Just rereading the email from Literary Nook,” I tell him. Mitch knows everything about me, including the stuff I don’t mention; he knows it all. He knows about my writing issues, about how I feel when I wake up every morning, and he even knows about her.

The girl who shredded my heart and gave me no reason as to why.

---