Page 17 of Unlucky in Love
He walked away, his figure fading into the shadows of the quiet street. Taylor stood there until he disappeared, her chest humming with an ache she didn’t want to name.
When she finally unlocked her door and stepped inside, she leaned back against the wood, heart pounding. The apartment was as quiet as always, but it felt different somehow. Lighter.
She pressed her hand to her pocket, where the bookmark still waited, and let herself smile in the dark.
She reached for the lock on the screen door, but something caught her eye.
A folded note had been slipped between the frame and the mesh. It fluttered faintly in the draft as though waiting for her. There was something attached to it.
Her pulse stuttered. Slowly, carefully, she tugged it free.
This time, it wasn’t just a note. A pen was clipped neatly to the paper. A sleek, expensive-looking fountain pen in deep navy, the exact shade of ink she always used when she journaled. She uncapped it with trembling fingers and swiped the tip across her thumb. A streak of purple-blue shimmered there, familiar and startling.
Her throat went dry.
Attached to the pen was a sticky note, square and simple, but the words hit her harder than anything so far.
Don’t stop writing, even when no one is looking.
Taylor sat down hard on the arm of the couch, note and pen clutched in her hands. Her heart thudded in her ears.
How could anyone know?
Her writing was her secret. She scribbled on pages stuffed in notebooks she never left lying around. She had guarded that part of herself for years, convinced that if anyone found out, they’d laugh.
And yet here it was. Proof that someone not only knew but cared enough to remind her to keep going.
She stared at the elegant swirl of ink across her thumb, emotions knotting in her chest. A mix of awe and dread and something far more dangerous.
Hope.
“Who are you?” she whispered into the empty room.
The silence didn’t answer, but the pen gleamed in her hand, heavy and solid, as if it had always belonged to her.
Taylor set the sticky note on the coffee table, uncapped the pen again, and pulled one of her journals from the shelf. The words spilled onto the page before she could stop them. Not a story, not a draft, just a raw flood of thoughts.
Someone sees me. Someone knows.
Her chest ached, but she kept writing until her hand cramped. The pen glided smooth and effortless, like it was made for her.
When she finally set it down, exhaustion wrapped around her, but the fear of invisibility didn’t feel quite so sharp anymore.
Chapter 6
Ryan
Ryan balanced the pie dish in one hand as he climbed Emma’s front steps, his other hand buried in his coat pocket against the February chill. The dish was still warm from the oven, thanks to his mother’s insistence. She had pressed it into his hands earlier that afternoon with a knowing smile and the comment, “At least bring something so you don’t look like a stray dog showing up for scraps.”
The smell of cinnamon and apples seeped through the foil. Comforting. Familiar.
But Ryan still felt strangely out of place. This house, with its tidy shutters and cheerful porch light, had been his sister’s home for years now. A part of him felt like a visitor, a man passing through, not someone who belonged to the chaos inside. Still, the sounds drifting from the kitchen—the laughter, clinking dishes, Emma’s voice calling for someone to set the salad on the table—pulled at something deep in his chest.
He braced himself, knocked once, and stepped in.
Warmth and noise hit him immediately. Coats hung crookedly on hooks by the door, the baby’s toys scattered across the living room rug, the scent of garlic bread wafting from the kitchen. For a moment, Ryan let it wash over him, reminding himself he could do this. He could face chatter, teasing, family noise. It wasn’t gunfire, not desert heat. Just dinner.
He moved toward the kitchen, setting the pie on the counter, and that was when he saw her.
