Page 58 of The Girl I Once Loved

But in the back of my mind, there was always something missing.

A nagging sensation that would tug and pull every so often.

That, while I was busy writing everyone else’s stories, I wasn’t living mine.

Noah had been right on another account too.

It was comforting hiding behind someone else’s name.

There was no pressure or high stakes for me if the book didn’t do well.

But his callous accusations made something else even more transparent to me.

That while my clients opened up their hearts and showed me true vulnerability, I didn’t have to reciprocate in any way, shape, or form. I could still keep my walls raised up high while they poured their hearts and souls out to me, sharing their best and worst moments, hoping I’d see the humanity in them and have the grace to write down their successes, as well as pain, in a dignified manner.

Yes.

It had been all too easy for me to write such books, since I didn’t have my own skin in the game.

Because in the end, that is what writing is all about.

Showing the world what your insides look like and praying they don’t judge you for it. You share your traumas, hopes and dreams, bleed them onto paper and then hand them off to complete strangers, hoping they will see the beauty in your words. I don’t think there is another job in this world that forces a person to be that vulnerable. To be that raw and honest. Especially with yourself.

So is it any wonder that I have hidden behind my anonymity?

That I have taken the easy way out instead of being brave and putting myself out there?

Instead of writing my truth?

Of course, it had to be Noah Fontaine to cast a spotlight on my insecurities and bring them into the light. Though the irony isn’t lost on me how the person who broke my trust and confidence in the first place is also the one who is disappointed in my cop out. That he feels he’s entitled to an opinion on how I conduct my life and make any sort of demands is beyond me.

But that’s exactly what he did.

Make the demand that I live up to the potential he sees in me. That I once saw in myself.

God, how I hate him!

But just as I think this thought, my lips burn at the memory of his mouth on mine. How they molded perfectly to me. How his body pressed up against mine, ignited something inside me that no one else has ever managed to coax out. How every touch, every bated breath, every whispered taunt, sets me aflame with desire, kindling a fire in me that I was sure had burned out years ago.

With just one kiss, he managed to tilt my world on its axis, and make me second guess every decision I’ve ever made.

Argh!

Unable to sleep, I turn on the light on my bedside table and get up from my bed. I then begin to manically pace my bedroom, left to right, like the unhinged woman he’s turned me into. With just a few words and a fucking kiss, he’s awakened things in me that should have stayed dormant. Feelings that have no business resurfacing.

It’s his fault I’m like this.

He was the one who broke me.

How dare he demand anything of me?!

And suddenly the itch to write down how much this man has scarred me, how much his cruel ways have damaged the course of my life, becomes too unbearable to withstand.

My gaze flashes to the closed laptop on my desk and then to my closet, the latter beckoning me towards it, forcibly pulling me in its direction.

Fuck him.

He wants my words?

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