~ Chapter 13 ~

“...are you sure it’s alright for me to sit here while you’re working?” I looked to Mr. Alessi, who had just placed drinks on a nearby patron’s table.

It was nighttime, and The Red Bar was bustling—not bursting at the seams, mind you, but lively just as a bar should be. Outside, the streets were lit by street lamps and hanging lights, more than one establishment open for the nightlife. People walked the sidewalk, some entering The Red Bar and some not, and while a few of the characters who appeared were what I would call shady, most of them seemed to be...friendly, in a good way.

I was struck once again by how different this sector was from my home—well, my former home—as Mr. Alessi laughed and patted my shoulder. He carried a serving tray, delivering food and drinks to the bar’s various tables, while Satsuya manned the actual bar (and Yuuki slept, presumably, tired out from the events of the day and the late hour). Music played faintly from an old radio, adding to the chatter of Mr. Alessi’s patrons.

Again, the bar reminded me more of a pub or whatnot, but maybe it didn’t matter what it was called so long as everyone was enjoying themselves.

“You are free to sit. You aided me plenty earlier, Miss Ivy.” Mr. Alessi made a show of spinning his empty serving tray atop a finger; man, was I jealous of his skill. “That table is yours for as long as you wish. Besides,” he glanced at my open laptop, “you are working too, no?”

No.

Not really, I thought, but of course I didn’t want to say it.

It wasn’t like I didn’t want to be working. I had pulled out my laptop with excitement, ready to delve back into the scene I had been working on earlier...only to write a few sentences that I promptly deleted and tried again so many times, my brain began to hurt.

Maybe after what had happened—after the Conscious and the chaos—I didn’t want to revisit the scene I’d been typing—a reflection of last night’s skirmish, where’d I’d first seen Satsuya—but I was disappointed in my lost fervor.

Mr. Alessi didn’t need to know about my writer’s block after the pep talk he’d gifted me with, though. He had poured his heart out when I’d asked him about losing his wife, so it seemed disrespectful to even think about saying his words—that what I had lost wasn’t really gone—weren’t helping me right now.

I mean, I did feel better, but, despite my earlier enthusiasm, I couldn’t seem to find my words.

Why had writing turned into a search for a grain of sand in the ocean? When I’d written my first book, the words had flowed as if a dam had broken. But now if felt like there were three dams where the one originally existed, all lined up in case there was a tiny crack, as if the water itself had built them just to spite me and ensure not even a trickle of inspiration.

I’ve always hated water. Maybe I should picture writing as a raging fire instead...

I did—but then I pictured stacks of my last few books (the bad ones that lead to my bestseller-ly demise) being burned at the stake, and I suddenly hated metaphors.

Trying not to allow my internal frustration to show, I offered Mr. Alessi my best desperate smile. “Thank you for letting me sit here. I am working. Have to write another book, right?” I had told him about life as a writer, and my descent into ‘that writer we don’t talk about’, so he already knew I was trying to write something new and get my life back.

“Best of luck to you, Miss Ivy. I am certain this next story will be the best yet.” The overly kind fedora-wearing man said before he rushed off to pick up more customer’s orders. I had offered to help earlier, but was thankful he had turned me down, afraid I would forget what drink went where and embarrass myself.

I took a deep breath and turned back to my screen, where the writer’s most dreaded enemy stared at me: the (digitally) blank page. Bolstered by Mr. Alessi’s words, I set to typing...only to delete again and again. It seemed the feeling of being excited about writing was far easier than the act of actually doing it.

Still, I wasn’t a newbie. I knew that in order to write you had to actually, you know, work. You couldn’t wait around for inspiration or some magical muse, though inspiration usually showed up somewhere after you began. I was usually good at keeping a schedule, at working through writer’s block and stress, but right now, even with my renewed determination, I could sense something important was missing.

Why do I need to write another book?

The thought came as my computer screen began to darken, sensing the turn of my mood.

Maybe I should have dismissed the thought as unimportant, but I realized it was a legitimate question. Aside from making me feel better (at least, if I could get anything written), what was the point in penning another book right now when I knew I may not live long enough to get it published, let alone read—maybe not even finished? Wasn’t there something more important I could be doing?

Shouldn’t we all be—I don’t know. Combat training? Running for our lives? Praying?

How can I sit here, and pretend that nothing else is happening in my life?

What do a few words mean?

What does food and drinks mean?

What good is any of it?

My gaze drifted to Satsuya, who selected bottles from the shelf behind the bar with speed, as if he had memorized where they were all located (he probably had). Patrons spoke to him as he prepared drink after drink, some laughing and some already inebriated. But as I watched, a man approached, his face haggard with lack of sleep, his back hunched as if in pain. When Satsuya greeted him, he tilted his head slightly, and though I couldn’t see his eyes from behind his glasses, that small little action struck me.

I hadn’t realized it before, but he’d tilted his head in that same way every time he spoke to me sincerely, listening to my words before he offered encouragement or advice.

The weary man before Satsuya sat down and asked for a drink, and, nodding, the bartender began to prepare it. His long fingers plucked a glass from beneath the counter, flipping it upright in one smooth motion, as if the glass were a baton. The exhausted patron began to speak as his drink was prepared, and though I couldn’t tell what he was saying from where I sat, watching like some sort of creep, I did see a tear well up and run down his cheek.

Satsuya must have seen it, too. His motions slowed as the man spoke, drink poured with an easy leisure as the bartender paid sincere attention to what the man was saying. More tears dripped down the patron’s chin as he reached for the glass, taking one drink after another. I lost count of how many minutes passed, but the man finished his tale and was offered another drink before Satsuya himself began to speak.

I couldn’t imagine what he was saying, but the sincerity was plain on his face, even from a distance. And, slowly but surely, a hint of a smile wobbled across the lips of the man who was crying.

Nothing was solved, but in that moment, a shudder ran through my heart as I thought:

Strength isn’t Satsuya’s real power—it’s encouragement.

Who was this person who had suddenly walked into my life? I didn’t know. I couldn’t fathom. In some moments he was terrifying, but other in moments he was heartbreakingly, awkwardly, genuinely sweet. He had promised to protect me, a stranger who had only made his already complicated life more complicated. He obviously had some connection (wanted or not) with the Conscious, and he had mentioned that he tried not to kill if he could help it. He was a Uni, but he lived his life (or attempted to live it) as a normal Typpe. He was being singled out for an impossible, horrific task, and yet...here he was, listening while an obviously distressed man spoke, as if the weight of the world wasn’t on his own shoulders.

Why do I need to write another book?

Suddenly, it seemed so obvious. How had I forgotten?

At home, I had reserved the top drawer of my dresser for fan letters. While all of them were thrown out by my mother when she’d ‘helped’ me clear out my apartment—which she technically owned—I had read those letters so many times, I had them memorized.

Some gushed about my characters (okay, most of them gushed about my novels’ romantic interests, and how swoon-worthy they were). Some gushed about the plots (along with said hot romantic interests). But some were heartfelt, at times even heartbreaking. A letter from a single parent, thanking me for a side character who reminded them of themselves. A letter from a woman fearful she’d never meet the ‘right one’. A letter from a mother struggling with losing her child, finding some solace in the character who shared her name. All had expressed what my stories meant to them, how they had provided laughter or unleashed tears or gave hope. My words had meant something, just like Satsuya’s seemed to mean something now.

And they didn’t just mean something to my fans—they meant something to me. So maybe it really was okay to just write for myself. Maybe it was okay to hope for more coming down the road—a return to publishing and my normal life. Or a new life. But maybe that didn’t have to be the starting point.

Satsuya looked up from the newest drink he was preparing and caught my eye. I hadn’t realized I was still watching; I had the tendency to space out, and oftentimes people thought I was staring at them when I wasn’t (or, in this case, was no longer honestly staring). My next-door-Uni smiled, and my heart skipped a beat.

Oh no, I thought.