Across Every Lifetime

1

Jennie

Wait. This can't be right.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying desperately to recall the dream I had last night—the one that was supposed to inspire my book. I knew I should've written it down the moment I woke up. I know myself too well; I forget my dreams before my feet even touch the floor. But I had been too exhausted from work to care, so I let myself drift back to sleep. Totally worth it then. Not so worth it now.

I spend thirty whole minutes trying to drag back even a single scene from that dream, only to end up frustrated and empty-handed. So I give up, deciding to come up with something new—except my mind is an abandoned wasteland.

Writer's block.
A disease I've been suffering from for months.

And I need to submit a fresh story idea to my advisor before the end of the month if I want to secure my spot in next year's writing program. The only reason I even applied was because my parents were panicking about my "imaginary career," which—fine—was partially fair. But still. It won't be imaginary once I publish my book. The book I'll write once I actually recover from this writer's block.

"I can't do this. I'm going out," I announce to my roommate-slash-best friend, Rose. I slam my laptop shut and stuff it into my tote bag. "If I sit somewhere crowded, inspiration will find me."

"Okay, but please be home early."

She's been paranoid ever since the day I got too invested in a couple's argument at the park. They fought for two hours. I watched for two hours. For research purposes. Obviously. And because I was a bit too enthralled by the drama, I came home ridiculously late. So now she gets nervous whenever I leave the house "to find inspiration."

"I'll be home by ten," I promise, grabbing my essentials and heading straight to the café across from our apartment. After ordering a buttery croissant and an iced caramel latte with three sugars (obviously), I walk to the park a few blocks away.

I scan the area until I spot an empty bench with a perfect panoramic view of the couples scattered around the park:
– adorable elderly couples feeding ducks
– athletic couples jogging together
– new couples picnicking like they're starring in their own indie film
– and the on-the-rocks couples giving their love one last go
My favorite? The quiet couples. The ones who don't need words. The ones where love shows in small gestures—the way he watches her sleeping in his lap, the way she brushes his hair with her fingers, the way they look at each other like the world already knows.

Oh, to be loved like that.

But today, none of them spark anything. I just sit there, munching my croissant, sipping my coffee, watching people be in love while feeling pathetic. Not pathetic because I'm single—I chose to be single. I promised myself I wouldn't get into anything distracting or pointless. Relationships end. Stories don't.

If I'm honest, there were times I felt like hugging the tree beside me and crying. But I'm used to it now—being alone in a place filled with love.

After what feels like hours, I stand up, defeated. Why can't anyone have a love story interesting enough to write about?

Back home, Rose is on the couch binge-watching Netflix.

"Any luck?"

"Nope." I flop onto the other couch and stare blankly at the ceiling.