"And there's no more lies
And the darkness is light
And nobody cries
there's only butterflies" - Pocketful of Sunshine by Natasha Bedingfield
I merrily walked home, humming that special tune out of a Natasha Bedingfield song. I don't know how he could do such a thing to me, just by smiling and squeezing my hand. I was flying on cloud nine with hardly any reason why. I realized this, how I was way too overjoyed for the inconsequential meeting we'd just had. But something in me just said, "Who cares?" And so for the rest of the day, I was set on being happy for the sake of being happy. Because when the sun decides to shine, the clouds just aren't as noticeable.
I came into my apartment, let Lappie down safely on the couch and settled into the big, rotating chair in front of my desk. I pulled back the drawer, revealing my keyboard. As my hands ran over the keys I was almost positive that was how Beethoven must have felt. Finally at home in a world full of people, all worries and stress about the future fade into the background until it's just you, and your instrument. I skimmed my fingertips on the F and J keys, feeling the tiny bumps as I settled my hands into place. My eyelids closed together as one sentence formed into my mind. I typed it quickly and then slid my eyes open. Before me was the start of what I hoped would be my new novel.
I read it over and over again, adding a word and then deleting it seconds later. Because if the first sentence sucks, then all people are going to do is put the book down and move on. I was convinced of this. Everyone knows that the beginning of any story has to hook the readers like a fish to bait, reeling them in before they even have a sense of what has happened. And after staring at that one sentence for nearly ten minutes, I started the second.
And so I weaved and I strung my instrument, playing out my beautiful concerto. Before I knew it, I had a prologue.
I continued like this for some time, every once in awhile cracking my hands when they became stiff. I was finally getting back on the horse as they would say, and I accredited my cure for writers block to Elliot. Maybe all I needed after all was a change of mood. I had been rather somber lately.
I took a small break after a few hours and debated on going for a smoothie run to Le Petit when my computer started to buzz. Curiously, I meandered from the kitchen over to it. I smiled brightly, Bria was calling me over video chat. It's always the other way around. "You're the one with the open schedule, you call me." Bria would say. And I did, very often. When Bria called me, it either meant she had incredibly good news or she wanted me to tell her something juicy. And based off of our previous discussion, I would have bet a year's salary on the latter.
With the click of a few buttons Bria's smiling face filled the screen. She was in her apartment, the brightly colored fuchsia walls behind her. Her apartment was far more colorful than mine, like a unicorn had puked in it. It suited her quite well, being the colorful person she is. I checked the clock on the screen, confirming that it was odd for to be home so early. I spotted an an array of clothes spread out on her bed, matching zebra suitcases beside them. As I peered behind her shoulder, Bria moved to block my view, suspiciously smiling all the while.
"Heeeeyyyy," I dragged out, furrowing as I looked back at her plastic smile. "What's with the-" I started, quickly being cut off by Bria.
"Forget about me." she insisted, talking quickly and not even letting me get a word in. "What happened with Elliot today?" And just when I was about to demand she explain to me why she was in her apartment at four in the afternoon, she wiggled her eyebrows playfully and said "Come on, you know you wanna tell me...."
Bria is the only one that seems to understand how to bring out the middle schooler in me. I blushed, tugging at my long hair as I tucked part of it back behind my ear.
YOU ARE READING
I Write Romances, Not Live ThemTeen Fiction
Five-time New York Times #1 bestseller, Adelaide Maddox, is not like normal 21 year-olds for many reasons. Not only is she one of the most popular romance novelists, she's hiding something from her readers. She's never been in love, never even been...