A sad smile flickers.
I leave them in the kitchen and haul myself up the stairs, my duffel bag bouncing atop each step, and it doesn’t take long for the emotional dam to crumble.
Moments later, I’m bawling on my childhood bed.
Sobbing. Mourning.
Practically dry heaving.
I hear the front door click shut, the only sound that breaks through the deafening heartache. Burying my face in my old pillow, I clutch my limp teddy bear to my chest, wishing the stuffed toy had the power to glue my broken pieces back together.
Glueourpieces back together.
Ten minutes later, my phone vibrates from the nightstand. I ignore it. It’s probably Misty, sending me the customary round of holiday-themed GIFs.
When it vibrates for a second time, I finally sigh and give in. Rolling over with a groan, I snatch it off the bedside table.
I click open the screen with a trembling hand, blinking through the wall of grief.
And my heart stops.
My Christian: Dear Stevie…
My Christian: I once wrote a story about a girl.
I stare.
Two text messages from Lex stare back at me.
My stomach pitches when his bubbles start to move, and it nearly implodes when a big chunk of text materializes on the screen.
My Christian: It was about me too, but every writer knows the best stories begin with a girl. And she was mine. She was beautiful of course. On the day we first met, when I rear-ended her at a stoplight with my ridiculous sports car, I couldn’t help but notice how pretty her eyes were as she glared daggers at me in the middle of the street. Our story never had a real ending. It stalled out with an ominous “to be continued” stamped across the last page, all because of one choice—my choice. And that’s where everything unraveled.
My eyes fly over the message, and I can’t catch my breath.
Another one comes through.
My Christian: I like to tell myself the choice was for her. For the greater good. But that’s not the whole truth. I was a coward. I could have reached out, I could have called her back or sent her flowers, but I didn’t. Instead, I funneled those feelings of self-loathing and regret into a screenplay, giving her the starring role. I told myself it was for me. My own version of therapy, a way to counteract the guilt I carried for abandoning that girl without a goodbye. But deep down, I wanted her to see it. I wondered if she’d despise me even more or if she’d dig through the layers and find the truth. It’s all in there if she looked hard enough. Everything I felt for her, for myself, is buried within those pages, brought to life for the world to see.
Tears streak across my vision.
I did find the truth.
I saw it, felt it, branded it on my heart.
But I thought I was too late.
The bubbles dance up and down, another message pinging to life.
My Christian: The story started with a boy and his dream. His first big break. But with every break comes a collapse—a cost. Each high he reached was followed by a fall, and every success chipped away atthe person he used to be. Fame has a way of chewing you up, and before long, the dream started to feel more like a trap. The boy who thought he could conquer the world found himself buried under the weight of it.
My Christian: And then came the girl. She didn’t sweep in like a savior and rescue him from his demons. She walked in quietly, unannounced, like she’d always been there, slipping into his world with eyes that saw past the mask he wore. She didn’t care about his money or the roles that made him famous. She cared about the cracks, the gaps, the missing pieces he was too afraid to show. She wanted to fill them. Where everyone else saw the flashy exterior, she saw the person underneath. And for the first time in years, he felt like maybe he could be…more.
I sit up in bed, rereading his words, my pulse in a tailspin as hot tears lance my eyes.
My attention returns to the screen.
My Christian: The truth is I never thought I’d find anything worth living for—not after I walked away from the only girl who ever truly saw me. I was convinced my story ended with that last scene, the credits rolling and the screen fading to black. But then she came back. And now, more than anything, I’m desperate to rewrite the ending.
