Chapter 2 — A Writer’s Reflections

Liora

The notebook sat on Liora’s desk like a silent challenge, its frayed edges catching the dim glow of the string lights overhead. From across the room, she stared at it, her thumbnail grazing her bottom lip. The battered cover seemed to mock her, daring her to try—and fail—once again. Her apartment felt smaller than usual tonight, its clutter pressing in like a physical manifestation of her thoughts: the teetering stack of books on the coffee table that she’d been “meaning to read,” the scarf she’d abandoned on the back of her chair when autumn air poured through the window, and the desk itself, crowded with half-empty mugs and scattered pens.

The faint hum of city traffic seeped through the thin window, steady and indifferent, a sharp contrast to the disarray in her mind. She exhaled, dragging her fingers through her auburn hair and tugging it loose from behind her ears. Her conversation with Kian replayed in loops, his warmth and sincerity nudging the edges of her thoughts. *People like stories they can see themselves in.* His words settled heavily in her chest, as though they carried weight she hadn’t fully unpacked yet.

For a moment, she closed her eyes and saw him clearly—the way his dark brown eyes crinkled when he smiled, the grease on his hands, the folded map sticking out of his pocket. Everything about him seemed so grounded, so effortless, as though he didn’t carry the baggage of endless second-guessing. And yet, he’d said what she couldn’t shake: that her kind of story mattered. A flicker of warmth rose, threatening to thaw the wall of doubt she’d built.

Liora scoffed softly and slumped into the chair at her desk, crossing her arms as she studied the notebook from a distance, as though the battered object might ambush her if she got too close. Her fingers brushed its worn cover, hesitating before flipping it open. The pages crackled faintly, the scent of paper and graphite whispering familiarity. It should have been a comfort—this notebook, with its creased edges and scribbled margins, was a testament to years of dreaming and trying. But tonight, the weight of it felt oppressive, as if every unfinished idea hissed reminders of her shortcomings.

The first page she landed on held a faintly sketched scene: a woman standing at the edge of a cliff, the wind pulling her hair in every direction, her silhouette poised between flight and safety. The pencil marks were hesitant, smudged at the edges. She traced the figure with her fingertip, her breath catching faintly. Something about the image hit uncomfortably close to home.

She grabbed a pen and pressed it to the page, starting and stopping like a car sputtering on an empty tank. A fragment of dialogue surfaced, then another. The words stumbled into sentences, stilted and uneven, but enough to make her heart flutter with possibility. Then came the wave of frustration. She scratched out an entire paragraph, the ink tearing faintly through the paper as she bore down too hard. Her jaw tightened. The notebook might as well have been laughing at her.

The scrape of her pen stopped abruptly, and she leaned back in the chair, pressing her palms against her face. The apartment felt stifling. Her breath hitched with the sharp scent of stale coffee lingering in the air, mixing with the peculiar weight of unfinished work. She shoved the notebook aside, its spine slapping softly against the desk.

Then her phone buzzed, its vibration cutting through the tension. She glanced at the screen: *Talia Wells*. Her thumb hovered over the answer button, hesitation creeping in. Talia always had something to say, usually paired with a blistering efficiency that left Liora feeling both cared for and cornered. With a small, resigned sigh, she swiped to answer.

“Hey,” Liora said, trying for casual.

“Hey yourself,” came her sister’s brisk voice, tinged with warmth beneath the no-nonsense exterior. There was the faint sound of nails tapping against a surface—probably her desk. “How did the workshop go?”

The words hit Liora like a splatter of cold water. “I didn’t make it,” she admitted after a beat, her voice quiet. “Flat tire.”

“Ugh, seriously?” Talia’s exasperation was palpable, though it softened just enough to betray concern. “Are you okay? What did you do?”

“I stopped near this auto shop,” Liora said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “The guy there fixed it. He didn’t even charge me.”

“Didn’t charge you? That’s… surprisingly decent of him.” There was a pause before Talia’s tone sharpened with curiosity. “Who was this guy?”

“Kian Mercer,” Liora replied, the name tasting unfamiliar but oddly comfortable as it rolled off her tongue. “He was… nice. Funny, too.”

“Hmm,” Talia mused, her interest piqued. “Small-town charm, I guess. So, did you make it to the workshop after that?”

“No,” Liora murmured, glancing at the notebook’s scratched-out lines. “I missed it.”

Talia sighed, a sound that teetered between sympathy and frustration. “Liora, you’ve *got* to stop letting things get in the way. You keep waiting for the perfect moment, and it’s never going to come.”

“I’m working on it,” Liora shot back, though the defensive edge in her voice faltered as she glanced at her ink-smudged fingers.

“Are you?” Talia’s tone softened, a quiet ache threading through her concern. “I’m not saying this to push you, okay? I just… I know how much writing means to you. And I hate seeing you doubt yourself when I *know* you can do this.”

The words lodged in Liora’s chest, heavy and familiar. “It’s not just doubting myself,” she murmured after a long pause. “It’s… every time I think I’ve got it, it just falls apart.”

“That’s part of the process,” Talia said gently. There was a moment’s silence before her voice lightened, teasing just enough to break the tension. “Maybe you need a distraction. This Kian guy sounds interesting—maybe let him inspire you. Worst case, you’ve got material for a romance subplot.”

Liora let out a startled laugh, shaking her head. “I’m pretty sure he’s not my muse, but thanks for the idea.”

“That’s what sisters are for,” Talia quipped. Then her tone softened again. “Call me later, okay? And Liora… just try. Even if it’s messy.”

Liora hung up, setting her phone on the desk as her sister’s words lingered in the air. *Even if it’s messy.* She thought of Kian’s voice, steady and unassuming. *People like stories they can see themselves in.* The memory stirred something fragile but insistent—like a stubborn ember reigniting after the wind had tried to snuff it out.

Her pen hovered above the page, her fingers trembling slightly before they steadied. She wrote slowly at first, sketching out the cliffside scene. The woman in the story stood taller now, her resolve growing with each line. Snippets of dialogue surfaced, half-formed but alive. For the first time in weeks, Liora didn’t stop to judge her work. She let the pen move, the faint scratch of ink filling the quiet like a whisper of progress.

It wasn’t perfect—it wasn’t even close—but it was something.

And tonight, that felt like enough.