Page 104 of For the Plot
I curl up beneath the old quilt, tucking my knees under me as the lamp on the nightstand casts a warm, amber halo over the bed. Outside, crickets chirp in the thick summer dark. The quiet is dense. Safe. My hand hovers over the first blank page before I finally press pen to paper.
Every man I’ve ever loved has made me feel like I had to earn it.
Earn their attention. Their kindness. Their approval.
Smile more. Text less. Be cool, not clingy. Confident, but not intimidating. Sexual, but not needy.
I’ve twisted myself into every possible shape trying to be enough.
And still, every time, I was either too much or not quite what they wanted.
But Reece never said that.
He never asked me to be less. He didn’t flinch when I pushed, didn’t back away when I spiraled. He watched me with this… intensity. Like I was chaos and he craved it. Like I was a storm he wanted to drown in.
But he still left.
My throat tightens as I pause, the words sitting heavy on the page like bricks on my chest.
Not because I scared him. Not because I wasn’t enough.
He left because of shame. Because of fear.
Because even though he made me feel seen, he still didn’t choose me.
I stare at the words until they blur. And then I write one more line.
I want to be chosen. Loudly. Without shame. Without fear.
I set the pen down, close the journal, and lie back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling. I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know if he’ll ever call or text or show up with flowers and an apology worthy of the damage.
But I do know that if he wants me, really wants me, he’s going to have to fight for me. Not in secret. Not behind closed doors. Not with half-truths and stolen moments.
I want more. And I’m done settling for less.
The next morning,my suitcase waits by the door like it knows I won’t change my mind. I linger in the kitchen, pouring the last of the coffee into a to-go mug while my mom finishes folding the dish towels and wiping down the counters like it's any other Tuesday.
She doesn’t ask if I’m sure. Doesn’t push. Just hands me a brown paper bag. “There’s a sandwich and those trail mix bars you like. And a ginger ale in case your stomach flips on the drive.”
I take it with a grateful smile. “Thanks, Mom.”
She nods, but her eyes don’t leave mine. “You ready?”
No. Not even close. But I nod anyway.
We walk out onto the porch together, the early summer heat already thick in the air, cicadas buzzing in the trees. My car sits at the curb like it always has, the sun glinting off the cracked windshield.
I take a step toward it, then stop. “I feel like I should say something wise. Like something final.”
“You don’t have to be final,” she says gently. “You just have to be honest.”
I look at her, really look at her… at the crow’s feet beside her eyes, the soft lines around her mouth, the kind of face that’s lived and broken and rebuilt a thousand times.
“What if I go back and nothing’s changed?” I ask quietly. “What if he still chooses guilt over me?”
She takes a breath, then steps down one stair so we’re eye level. “Then you know.”
My eyes sting.
