Dec '25 (edited) • 📣 Feedback
Writing a book, can I copy and paste what I have for critique?
I don't want to break any rules, but I am writing a novel, and I have about 6,000 words so far, wondering if I can copy and paste them here so you can read it and give advice?
Chapter 1
It was meant to be a day like any other, that is, until she walked in.
I was working a double shift at the restaurant where I was employed, The Red Windmill, both as a waiter, and on occasion, as a piano player. The money from waiting tables was better, but playing music was my passion. This was a Friday night, and it was on these days I had arranged for me to wait tables for the first half of the day, and then at six P.M., change over to playing piano after taking a quick break to shower and change. I’m allowed to play anything I want, as long as it sounds good. I normally stick to classical: Bach, Mozart, Chopin, and some modern composers. I’ve always loved the sound of classical, from Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata to Chopin’s études. My favorite piece, however, is a modern piece from the French film Amélie called Comptine D'un Autre Ete. Almost every night this is the song I start and end with. At the beginning of the night I play large and big, with lots of crescendos and slamming on the keys harder. At the end of the night I play softer, being more careful with the dynamics and playing ever so slightly slower. It’s incredible how much different a song can sound depending on how you play it.
I was walking over from my apartment where I lived alone over to the restaurant. It was less than a mile away from my apartment, which is why I chose to walk most days as it gave me a chance to think and breathe. I walked down the sidewalk, staring at the clouds as I moved. I’m somewhat of a daydreamer, constantly getting lost in my own thoughts, which causes me to lose track of myself and my surroundings sometimes. I’ve been known to run into a tree more than once in my life. Today, I changed from my normal uniform into a black dress shirt with a vest and black dress pants and shoes to match. I am wearing a woody smelling cologne that makes me feel like I’ve just been in the woods for an extended period of time. To play confidently, you have to dress confidently. It is 5:45 right now, I am walking up the rather steep hill to the restaurant, so I should make it in plenty of time to be seated at 6. When I make it in, I quickly open up the grand piano, making sure that the strings are exposed so the sound will be heard clearly by the patrons inside. I don’t use the music rack where sheet music is stored, because everything I’ll be playing tonight is all memorized. I set up my tip jar (this is a job, after all) and once I sit down, I look around at the patrons already sitting down all around me. The place is three quarters of the way full, not a bad audience, not bad at all. I take a deep breath and begin to play. I count the beats in my head,
1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 1 and…
This song is very easy to play, it was one of the first songs I ever learned, but when I first heard it, I thought it sounded much harder than it really is. In reality, the whole song is repeated, and the left hand is the same throughout its entirety. This piece taught me there is beauty in the simple.
I continue to play, I am half-way through the first section,
Dun- dun.. Dun- dun
Now the fun and fast part of the song,
Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-dada-da-da-da-da-
I continue to play, lost in my thoughts as I play. This song always gives me a different experience every time I play it, and that’s why I love it. I play the way my emotions dictate me interpret it. Each time I play it is ever so slightly different. No repetition is the same, whether the difference be in the way one singular note is articulated can make all the difference in the song, or as I call it, a masterpiece. I finish and look around, and no one notices. They are all busy eating their food or conversing with their table. This is normal, people come to The Red Windmill for the food and conversation, not to hear a pianist unravel himself at the bench. My job is to enhance the atmosphere, not steal the show. Then, I saw her. She was sitting by herself, reading a book, one leg crossed over the other. She seemed to not even notice anyone else around her. How strange. This isn’t the type of place people come by themselves to read. This whole observation happens very quickly; the owner hates silence in between pieces. I shrug this off and continue to play, this time a Ludovico Einaudi, called Nuvole Bianche, or White Clouds. The music enveloped me, and I began to think about that girl, and for the first time that night, I faltered slightly. Not enough for a non-musician to notice, but still. I needed to focus. This was a job after all. When I finished, I glanced back over at the book girl, but she was gone. My shoulders sank, because I wanted to meet her. I sighed, and kept playing. Each time I finished a song, I glanced back over at where the girl had been, but she never came back. I went through my set, song after song, and I finished right before nine, when I ended with my signature piece. I played it more softly this time, more subdued, as it was probably meant to be played, because the translation of the title meant Nursery Rhyme From Another Summer. The owner of the restaurant, along with the front of house employees, all liked that I ended the night with the same song I began with, because all the regular customers knew that meant we were closing soon, and they began to leave slowly. I had played for almost three straight hours, with only a few short breaks in between. Each time I finished a song, I glanced back over at where the girl had been, but she never came back. I began to close the lid on the piano, and put the cover over it. I checked my tip jar, but it only had about ten dollars in total. Waiting tables was better. But I would never stop playing. “You play really well.” It was her. The book girl. There was a pause before the words landed, measured, as if she’d decided on them. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m glad you liked it.” She nodded, once. “I did.” “What’s your name?” I inquired. “Justice. And yours?” “Alex. I noticed you earlier,” I added. “You were reading.” I didn’t say how often I’d looked for her after that, or how the empty chair had felt louder than the room. She smiled. Not wide, but deliberate.
“The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart.” “Is it good?” I asked. “It’s careful,” she said. “About love.” “What’s it about?” She looked at the book, not at me. “A boy who was born on the coldest day on Earth and has his heart replaced with a cuckoo-clock for a heart. He believes his heart is too fragile for love. He makes rules to protect it.”
“Do they work?”
“For a while,” she said. “Until they don’t.”
She closed the book with her thumb. “He mistakes fear for wisdom. By the time he realizes the difference, it’s too late.”
I thought about that as the last of the lights dimmed. I heard the romance in it; she seemed to hear the warning.
“I’ll have to read it,” I said.
Justice met my eyes, her grip tightening slightly around the book.
I felt an immediate, irrational relief that she had returned; and an equal fear that she wouldn’t be for long.
Chapter 2
A few weeks passed after that fateful night at The Red Windmill. Me and Justice stayed in touch, texting back and forth, but nothing serious. I knew she worked at a local community theater across town, helping with costumes and set changes. It gave her a reason to be there without being seen. She had lent me the book she was reading that first night I met her, and I wanted to return it. I walked into the theater one night hoping to find her there, but she wasn’t backstage. She was singing.
I saw her in the upper balcony where the audience would sit. The house was nearly empty, save for her. Almost all the lights were off, and there she was, slender and beautiful as a specter. She was singing softly; she hadn’t noticed me yet, and I wanted to keep it that way, lest I scare her, and the singing would stop. As I listened to her sing, I knew I was witness to something sacred, something maybe no one else had ever seen before. I felt some movement in my eyes. What is this? Are these tears? Am I crying? I was stunned, I couldn’t move. Her voice had me in a trance. I listened for a second, getting a feel for the rhythm and the key of the song, then stealthily walked onstage where there was a piano behind the curtain. I uncovered it, opened the lid, and began to play along to what she was singing. I heard her falter for a moment, but then she continued. We performed in tandem, and the singing continued for a few minutes, until the song ended. I sat at the bench for a moment in anticipation, until I heard footsteps walking towards me.
“Alex! What are you doing here?” She seemed surprised that it was me at the piano, almost as if she had only imagined the accompaniment in her head.
“I came to see if you were here,” I responded. “I finished the book, and I wanted to give it back.”
“Well, what did you think of it?”
“I think it’s about how loving people is worth the risk, even if we might end up getting hurt. He spent his whole life in fear that loving someone would kill him, in the end it was his fear of his own fragility that ultimately killed him.”
“Well, it seems we have a differing opinion then.”
“Seems so.”
She stared at the ground in silence for a long time. I broke the silence.
“So, you sing?”
“Yeah, I sing”
“You have a beautiful voice, you know.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“You should sing professionally. You could do it.”
“I don’t know about that. But… it has always been a dream of mine.”
“Well, then you should follow that dream!” I exclaimed.
She shook her head and mumbled, “It’s unrealistic.”
I get up from the bench so I can look her in the eyes. “It’s only unrealistic if you believe it is.”
“You don’t understand. There are so many obstacles in the way.”
“Then start small. Sing for weddings and stuff. Get on stage here and sing, and not just on the balcony.”
“I can’t,” she mumbled again. I didn’t want to agitate her further so I changed the subject.
“What would be the realistic dream, then?”
“Well, I think I could see myself planning weddings,” she said. “I think I could be happy doing that.”
“Well, for the record, I think that you should still try the singing dream. But I guess planning weddings isn’t a bad career choice either.”
“Thanks,” she responded. I could tell I had hit a nerve with this conversation, but I couldn’t believe that someone with such a beautiful voice didn’t believe in themselves enough to chase their dream.
“Well, here’s your book back,” I said.
“Keep it. It’s a gift.” She smiled faintly, seeming to get over the conversation we just had. And with that, we went our separate ways. When I got home that evening, I sat down at my desk and wrote her a letter. One she was never meant to see. Just to capture the way I felt in that moment.
Dear Justice,
Tonight I found you singing on the balcony of the theater. It took my breath away, and I've never felt anything quite like this. I can’t believe you don’t believe in your dream to sing. But I do. I’ve only known you for a few short weeks, and I don’t really have any idea as to what your feelings toward me are. I’d like to think you’re interested in me, or at least want to get to know me better, but you make it hard to tell. But after tonight, I know one thing for sure, I want to know you better.
Yours,
Alex J.
Chapter 3
As Justice and I grew closer after that night in the theater, we began to see each other more often. She would come to the restaurant on Fridays to watch me play, and I would go to the theater to watch her in rehearsals. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. Summer was ending, and we were heading into the fall season. Everything was starting to turn orange and leaves were beginning to fall. I asked her out on a coffee date, and she agreed. I felt giddy inside when she accepted, and I couldn’t sleep the night before, consumed by thoughts of her.
It was a late Tuesday afternoon when we had our date. When I arrived, she was already there, with a steaming cup she hadn’t yet touched. She was wearing a very fall-coded outfit with a brown newsboy cap. She looked good. I, in turn, was wearing brown khaki pants and a flannel.
“Hey,” she said, smiling at me as I sat down. She already had a coffee for me on the table. I set my hands around the mug and enjoyed the warmth for a second, until it got too hot and I had to grab it by the handle. “What’s it like,” she asked, “playing for people you don’t know?”
“It’s strange,” I said, after a moment. “You give them something honest, and most of them don’t even look up. But every once in a while, someone really listens. That makes it worth it.” She nodded slowly. “I think I like being close to things without being the focus of them.”
“Why?”
She tilted her head, pondering. “It feels safer that way.”
“Safer from what?”
She hesitated, then exhaled. “From being seen too clearly.”
Something about the way she said it made me pause.
“I don’t think you’re afraid of being seen,” I said carefully. “I think you’re afraid of being hurt once you are.”
Her fingers tightened around the mug. “That’s… uncomfortably close.”
“Sorry.”
“No,” she said quickly. “Don’t be. I just—” She searched for the right words. “I don’t like when people think they have me figured out. I like being mysterious, it makes me feel like I have something up my sleeve”
“I’m not trying to,” I said. “I just notice things.”
“I can tell,” she said, half-smiling. “That might be the problem.”
She told me about growing up learning to be self-sufficient early, about how growing up with divorced parents, she learned to not need anyone. It always seemed like everyone else had bigger problems, so it was easier to not need anyone for anything.
“It sounds like you learned to take care of everyone,” I said.
“Or at least try to,” she replied. “Sometimes I don’t know who I am if I’m not doing that.”
I looked at her then, really looked. “That sounds lonely.”
“It can be,” she said. “But it also makes me feel useful. Needed.” She traced the rim of her cup with her finger. “I think I’m afraid of being needed,” she said softly. “Or of disappointing someone who needs me too much. I feel like every time I get close, people leave, and I end up hurt.”
I nodded, hearing what she meant and missing what it implied.
We laughed then, about something small. I don’t even remember what; and for a few minutes it felt easy. Like we were old friends catching up instead of two people circling something new. She told me about helping backstage at the theater, how she liked being part of the magic without stepping into the light. I told her about the letters I wrote but never sent, how writing helped me make sense of things that felt too big to say out loud. “You write letters?” she asked, eyebrows lifting.
“Yeah,” I said, suddenly shy. “Not to anyone in particular. Just… to get things out. I’ve been doing it as long as I can remember, because sometimes it’s the only way I’m able to say what I think or how I feel.”
“I like that,” she said. “It feels honest… I don’t usually talk like this,” she admitted, after a pause. “But you make it feel… easy.”
“I’m glad,” I said. “I just want to understand you.” She smiled, but there was a flicker of something uneasy beneath it. She looked down at the table, thinking about something. When she looked back up, she had a certain look on her face.
“Have you written a letter for me?”
My face flushed as I pondered whether to be honest. “Yes,” I said. “But you will never read it. It’s not for you. Just for me to express how I feel without judgment.”
She nodded. “I understand. No pressure.”
When we stood to leave, she hugged me, her cheek against my shoulder, then pulled back as if she’d caught herself.
“I’ll see you soon,” she said.
“I’d like that,” I said.
As I watched her walk away, I felt certain of two things at once: that I was getting closer to her, and that I didn’t yet know how far away she really was.
Chapter 4
Everything seemed to happen at once, in fragments that stacked on top of each other until the relationship felt less like something we were building and more like something we had stumbled into fully formed. We didn’t stop to ask if it was too fast. We were already moving. Justice began showing up at The Red Windmill on Fridays, sitting at the bar while I played piano, watching me with an attentiveness that made me lean into the keys a little harder. I’d catch her eye during familiar passages and exaggerate a cadence just to make her smile. I started going to the theater more often, lingering backstage while she worked, watching her move through the space like she belonged to it even when she insisted she didn’t.
Then there was the night everything went wrong. It wasn’t a piano shift. Just waiting tables: trays, tickets, noise. The dinner rush hit all at once.
“Alex, table twelve is still waiting!” “Where’s my food?” “Behind! Hot!”
The kitchen was chaos: pans clanging, the printer spitting tickets nonstop, sweat dripping down my back. I grabbed a plate off the pass with a rag that was still damp from the sink. “Don’t use that!” the chef barked, too late. The heat cut sharp through the cloth and into my palm. “Ahhh!” I dropped the plate, porcelain shattering against the floor. The chef spun on me. “Are you kidding me? Get it together, Alex! This ain’t no soup kitchen!” My chest tightened instantly. Too fast. Too sudden. “I’m sorry,” I said, but the words barely made it out. My hand throbbed. My ears rang. The room felt like it was closing in. “Move!” someone shouted. I backed away, heart pounding, breath turning shallow. I locked myself in the employee bathroom and slid down against the door, staring at my reddening palm like it belonged to someone else. My phone was already in my hand. She answered on the second ring. “Alex?” “I burned myself,” I said, voice shaking. “And I can’t.. I can’t breathe. Everything’s too loud.” “Okay,” she said, immediately steady. “I’m here. You’re safe. Sit down if you can.” “I am.” “Good. Look at your hand. Tell me what you see.” “It’s red. It hurts.” “Okay. That means you’re still here with me. Now breathe. In for four.” We counted together. Slowly. Again. And again. “You don’t have to fix anything right now,” she said. “You don’t have to be good at this job, or any job. Just stay with me.” By the time I hung up, the panic had loosened its grip. My hand still hurt. Everything else felt quieter. Later that night, when I thanked her, she brushed it off like it was obvious. “That’s what you do,” she said. “You show up.”
Another night, she dragged me to a small club downtown where the music was too loud and the floor sticky with spilled drinks. Justice loved dancing, apparently. Me, the musician I was, had somehow never been. I stood stiffly at first, unsure what to do with my hands. “You’re overthinking it,” she laughed. “Come here.” She placed one hand lightly on my shoulder, the other guiding my arm. “Follow me,” she said. “Don’t lead.” She counted under her breath, teaching me the rhythm, correcting my steps with gentle pressure. I stumbled more than once, but she didn’t let go. Eventually, I stopped thinking and let my body catch up. “There,” she said, smiling. “See? You’re dancing.” She looked so open then, unselfconscious, alive, that it felt like being let in on a secret. A few days later, I wrote her another letter. This one wasn’t meant to stay hidden. I wrote it at my desk, rewriting it twice before finally letting it be imperfect. I folded it carefully and carried it with me all day, the weight of it heavier than the paper itself.
Justice,
This will be the third time I’ve tried to write this letter over the course of a week, so I’ll make this short and sweet. I’m sorry that I couldn’t say any of this in person, but the truth is, I am horrible at giving or showing affection, so just know that I don’t know any other way to say how I feel.
I guess what I’m trying to say is I had caught feelings for you at some point over the last few weeks. I think it’s because I found it easy to open up to you about personal things like I never have with anyone else before, but I suspect you get that a lot.
For a while, I saw you as this perfect person. But even after I took off the rose-colored glasses, and could see your flaws, the feelings didn’t go away. They only intensified.
I’ve never met anyone like you, and I want to keep seeing you. Not many people have made me cry with a song.
Sincerely yours, Alex
I gave it to her after rehearsal, when she was tired and flushed, hair pulled back, still half in the world she disappeared into backstage. “For you,” I said. She raised an eyebrow. “This one you’re allowed to read.” She took it slowly, like she understood what it cost me to hand it over. She didn’t open it right away. She held it, then finally unfolded the page and read in silence. When she looked up, her eyes were soft. Unguarded. “You really mean this?” she asked quietly. “Yes.” She swallowed. “Most people leave when they notice my flaws.” “I didn’t.” A small, disbelieving smile crossed her face. “That… means more than you know.”
Later that night, she texted me. No one has ever wanted me like that before. I lay awake afterward, staring at the ceiling, feeling something close to certainty. Not the quiet kind. The reckless kind. The kind that convinces you that because something feels good right now, it always will. At the time, all I knew was this: we were happy, and happiness felt like proof.
Chapter 5
Things were good. At least, that’s what I tried to tell myself.
Justice still came on Fridays when she could. She still held my hand when we walked together. Still kissed my cheek in quiet moments like it was the most natural thing in the world. If anyone asked, I told them things were good. Better than good.
But there were small things. She started texting back later than usual. Not hours, not enough to justify concern. Just long enough for me to notice the gap where her response used to be. When she did reply, she was warm as ever, slipping back into place so easily that I wondered if I had imagined the space at all. One night, I asked if she wanted to come over after rehearsal. “I’m really tired,” she said.
“Can we do another night?”
“Of course,” I said immediately. Too quickly.
She smiled, relieved. “Thank you.” The next day, she sent me a photo of food she had made at home: Thinking of you. The relief washed over me, sharp and unwarranted.
Another time, we were lying on the floor of the theater after rehearsal, staring up at the exposed rafters. “Do you ever think about where this is going?” I asked. She turned her head toward me, studying my face like she was choosing her words very carefully.
“I think about enjoying what it is,” she said carefully. I nodded, even though something in my chest tightened. “That makes sense,” I said. She smiled, reached for my hand. “Hey. We’re okay.” And we were. I believed her. Still, I began noticing how she reacted when I remembered small details. How I knew which songs calmed her, how I could tell when she was overwhelmed before she said anything. “I don’t deserve you,” she said once, lightly. There was something in her tone that wasn’t entirely praise. I laughed it off. “Yes, you do.” She didn’t push it further. Neither did I.
Later that night, I reread the letter I’d given her, wondering if I’d said too much, too soon. She hadn’t pulled away. She hadn’t said anything had changed. But I started to realize something uncomfortable: I was paying attention to maintaining the closeness now, not just enjoying it. And even though everything still felt good, I had the strange sense that I was walking carefully through something I didn’t yet understand.
Chapter 6
She didn’t notice when it started to feel like something she had to carry. Not in a dramatic way. Nothing shifted all at once. There was no moment she could point to and say that’s when it changed. If someone asked, she would’ve said she was happy. And she would’ve meant it. Alex was easy to be around. Easier than most people. He listened in a way that didn’t feel performative, didn’t interrupt or rush her toward conclusions. When he laughed, it was unguarded. When he touched her hand, it was careful, like he was asking permission even after she’d already given it. She liked that. She liked him. On Fridays, she sat at the bar while he played, letting the music settle into her bones. She told herself she was there for the piano, but she watched him instead. The way his shoulders lifted when a phrase swelled, the way his brow furrowed when he concentrated. She wondered if he knew how visible he was when he played. Probably. He noticed everything. That thought came with a faint tightening in her chest, the kind she didn’t dwell on long enough to name.
He texted her often. Not constantly, just enough that she grew used to it.
A message waiting when she woke up.
Another before bed.
If she didn’t answer right away, she noticed the subtle relief when she finally did, even though he never said anything about the gap. She didn’t like thinking about that relief. So she didn’t. One night, he asked if she wanted to come over after rehearsal. She stared at the message longer than she meant to.
She was tired, yes, but not too tired.
The real reason sat just beneath the surface, indistinct and uncomfortable.
I’m tired, can we do another night?, she typed instead. When he answered immediately, of course, she exhaled without realizing she’d been holding her breath. The next morning, she sent him a photo of her food. Something small. Something warm. Proof, maybe, that nothing was wrong. Because nothing was wrong.
They lay on the floor of the theater after rehearsal a few days later, staring up at the ceiling. Dust drifted in the light from the stage lamps.
“Do you ever think about where this is going?” he asked. She didn’t panic. She didn’t freeze. She just felt a faint internal shift, like stepping too close to the edge of a thought she didn’t want to fall into.
“I think about enjoying what it is,” she said. It sounded reasonable. True, even. He nodded. She reached for his hand. He squeezed back, grateful in a way that made her chest warm, and heavy. “I don’t deserve you,” she told him later, when he anticipated something she hadn’t said out loud. He laughed it off. She smiled too. She liked that he saw her. She liked it until the moment she felt visible in a way she hadn’t chosen. That night, alone in her apartment, she unfolded the letter he’d given her again. She reread the part about the rose-colored glasses. The way he’d written about her flaws without naming them, without sounding disappointed. Most people, she thought distantly, only liked the version of her that stayed easy. She pressed the letter flat, careful not to crease it. She didn’t think about leaving. She didn’t think about running. She thought about rehearsal schedules and unfinished sets and the way his voice sounded when he said her name. Still, when she turned off the light, she left her phone face-down on the nightstand. It wasn’t a decision. It just felt better that way.
Chapter 7
The argument started small, like it always did.
“I’m just saying, you still haven’t written me a letter yet,” I tried to say this in a joking way, but it came out harsher than I meant it to.
“I didn’t know that it was a requirement,” she said on the other line.
“I’m just saying…” I bit my tongue. It almost seems like I care more than you do.
“... that after everything, you might, I don’t know, want to.”
“I’ve been busy, Alex.”
“I know, I just miss you, is all.” God, did I really just say that? I sound so frickin needy right now.
“I– I can’t do this right now,” she said, her voice slightly unsteady.
“I’ll call you later.” She hung up. I tried to distract myself by doing anything. I practiced piano on the keyboard I kept in my room, cleaned the apartment, sat on my bed staring at nothing and hating my life. And then, the phone rang.
“I wrote you that letter,” she said. “I just didn’t know how to give it to you, so I’ll just read it out loud, if that's okay with you.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” My anxiety was through the roof in anticipation of what could possibly be in this letter. I was sitting down on my toilet seat. She sat there silent for a few seconds, I could hear her taking deep breaths as if she was gathering the courage to begin reading.
Hey Alex,
I don’t really know how to start this letter to be honest. So many things are going through my mind right now but for now we will stick to one. I know this is gonna sound dumb but I’m just wondering when you’re going to wake up. Wake up to the fact that I am not the person you think I am or get sick of my inability to talk about my issues. Like when you say use your words or call me immature you have to realize I am an extremely broken person. I can barely admit to myself how I feel and it’s a work in progress, but it will take time to heal. Not only that, but a pattern has arisen where there is always a guy I cling to in my life and put too much of my hope and trust in, not even knowing how I feel and confusing myself in the process. I have cried too many tears over guys and it always starts out like this. I always say we’re friends and the more we talk, confuse my feelings. I already feel semi-dependent on you and we have only talked a few weeks. I know this is a lot in one letter and for that I apologize, my head and heart have done quite a bit of battling over the years. I also understand you might not be pleased with the contents of this letter and understand if you wish to cut contact here. You have been extremely kind to me and willing to listen. For that I will always be grateful.
Your friend,
Justice S.
As she read, her voice wavered in places, steadied in others. Hearing the words out loud made them heavier. When she said she was broken, my stomach dropped. When she talked about dependency and patterns, I felt exposed, like I’d been named without being accused. When she finished, there was a long silence.
“I don’t want to be another guy you cry over,” I said finally.
“I know,” she said. “That’s not what I want either.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re already halfway gone?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
She was quiet for a moment. “Because I don’t know how to be all the way in without losing myself.”
“I don’t want you to lose yourself,” I said. “I just want you to choose me.”
“That’s the problem,” she said softly. “I don’t know how to do that without panicking.”
My throat tightened. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I care about you,” she said. “I just don’t know if I can be what you want.”
“I don’t need perfect,” I said. “I just need you.”
Another pause. I could hear fabric rustling, like she’d shifted on the bed.
“Maybe we don’t have to decide anything right now,” she said. “Maybe we just… leave things as they are.”
The words hit me like relief. Like oxygen.
“Okay,” I said immediately. Too quickly. “Yeah. That’s fine. We can do that.”
“Good,” she said. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, meaning it with everything I had.
We stayed on the phone a little longer, talking about nothing, careful again. When we hung up, I sat there in the bathroom for a long time, staring at the tile.
Things were still good. We were still together.
But something had shifted, and I could feel myself holding tighter; not because I felt secure, but because I was afraid that if I loosened my grip even a little, she would disappear. Little did I know that the harder I held on, the further away she would inevitably slip..
Chapter 8
The dream always started the same way. I was back at The Red Windmill, sitting at the piano. The room was full, louder than usual, forks clinking, voices overlapping, the low hum of conversation pressing in on me. I tried to play, but when I put my hands on the keys, no sound came out. I pressed harder. Still nothing. I looked up, and Justice was standing near the back of the room. She wasn’t alone. People moved around her, past her, through her, like she was part of the furniture. She held a coat folded over her arm, her phone in her hand. She looked calm. Decided. I stood up from the bench. “Justice,” I called. She turned, smiling faintly, the way she did when she was already halfway gone. I tried to walk toward her, but the space between us stretched, the floor lengthening with every step. “I just need a second,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” “I’ll wait,” I said. My voice sounded small. She nodded, as if that settled something, and turned toward the door. Panic set in then, sharp and immediate. I ran, pushing past tables, knocking into chairs. My chest felt tight, like I couldn’t get enough air. Every time I got close, she moved farther away. “Please,” I said. “Just tell me what I did wrong.” She stopped at the door and looked back at me, her face unreadable. “Nothing,” she said. “That’s the problem.”
Then she was gone.
I woke up gasping, sheets twisted around my legs, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape my ribs. The room was dark and quiet, my phone face-down on the nightstand. No new messages. I lay there staring at the ceiling, one hand pressed flat against my chest, trying to slow my breathing. The dream clung to me, refusing to dissolve the way dreams usually did. It felt less like something my mind had invented and more like something it had rehearsed. I told myself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just stress. That people didn’t leave because of dreams. But even as I said it, I knew that wasn’t true. The problem wasn’t that I was afraid she would leave. The problem was that my mind had already started preparing for it. Somewhere along the way, my thoughts had shifted from how do I make this work to how do I survive when it doesn’t. I hated that part of myself, the one always bracing, always scanning for exits that hadn’t been announced yet. In the dream, she hadn’t been angry. She hadn’t accused me of anything. She hadn’t even seemed sad. That was what unsettled me most. She left calmly, like someone who had already made peace with a decision I was still trying to understand. Nothing, she had said. That’s the problem. I turned onto my side and stared at the dim outline of my bedroom door. I wondered when she had started taking up this much space in my head. When her absence had begun to feel louder than her presence. I thought about how quickly I’d accepted leaving things as they were, how relieved I’d felt just to keep her, any version of her. I checked my phone again. Still nothing. I set it back down and closed my eyes, not really trying to sleep, just trying to escape the spiral of thoughts chasing each other through my head. I told myself that things were fine. That we were okay. That I was overthinking. But ever since she had read me that letter, I could feel it, that low, constant hum of anxiety beneath everything else. Deep down, I knew that from now on, things wouldn’t be the same as they had been.
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Writing a book, can I copy and paste what I have for critique?
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