Split

Chapter ten

The black cursor blinks at the top of the blank page.

Every time it pops in and out of existence, I feel it taunting me. Just write something, it seems to beg me.

I'm begging myself to do the same thing. Why is this so hard? I've written a million essays in my day. For four years of high school, I wrote copious amounts of selective essays to earn extra points. And this isn't even an essay. It's a fucking short story. It's literally making shit up, but my mind is as blank as this page.

Or, actually, not. It's buzzing with thoughts so loud I can't concentrate long enough to come up with a decent plot. Anything I float around in my head is immediately shot down by every ounce of self-criticism I own.

I lean back in my chair, rubbing my eyes with the palm of my hand. After a month of analyzing and discussing famous and more obscure pieces of literature, Dr. T finally assigned us to write our own story. The prompt is very open: anything you want, as long as it's fiction and fits within the length requirements for a short story.

She wants to see what we do with completely free reins, which is terrifying. Because if you fail at an assignment with various obstacles, there's always an excuse to be found. But when it's up to you to decide everything, well, you only have yourself to blame for failing.

Red and white stars dance behind my closed eyelids as I apply more pressure. God, this shouldn't be so hard. I've had to do assignments for my other classes, too, and while I've hated it and procrastinated it until the last second - a new habit of mine - at least they got done. But I respect Dr. T, and I want her to like me. I want her to be impressed by me. So it matters more.

And maybe, if I fail at this one thing I actually enjoy, my secret will finally be out. My classmates, my teachers, Aizza, my parents... Zeke, they'll all know that I'm a fraud. That the thing that used to make me special has vanished, and instead of facing it six years ago, I tucked my tail between my legs and ran.

And what will happen once they know?

That thought is too scary, so instead of going down that dark trail, I slam my computer shut and jump up from my desk chair, grabbing my phone. I go to stand by the window, opening up my socials.

Over the last six years, I've managed to grow quite the following, sharing traveling tips and finding the secret spots that most tourists overlook. A lot of people want the kind of nomadic lifestyle that I have, so I do my best to show them a realistic way of having it. I work, a lot, primarily bartending and such, and I've lived in some shabby places. But I also take advantage of the fact that I'm in places longer than most, so I'm able to find the hidden gems. I like to advise my followers how to experience a city the way it's supposed to and not just follow a guide to every tourist attraction.

But I've only uploaded three times since my plane touched down in Michigan a month ago. Mostly small think pieces from my favorite places around the world. I've told my followers I'll go into a slight hibernation this year and not expect much content.