Like... writing.

Immediately, Gray's suggestion filled my heart with warmth.

The fact that he remembered my silly poems and stories from over a decade ago was... precious. It struck a chord in me. No matter how badly Gray fucked up with Lydia, I had to admit, he was being a fucking sweetheart right now. Despite yesterday's heated conversation, I could tell he was trying his best to be my friend again. He was trying to be the bigger person.

I stole a sheepish look at Gray. "I can't believe you still remember those notebooks. They were so embarrassing!"

"No, they weren't embarrassing at all. I bullied you into letting me read most of what you wrote, remember? Even that crazy story about the mafia prince who married a surgeon. I think you were really good at it."

Oh, God.

I kind of remembered that stupid mafia romance I had concocted as a horny, overimaginative teenage girl. The story was full of plot holes, but I had so much fun writing it. Sadly, I never finished the ending.

My cheeks flushed slightly. "You're only saying that—because you're trying to make me feel better."

"No," he countered again, "I'm saying it because I remember how writing made you feel. You looked so pleased and proud every time you finished writing something new."

I mused thoughtfully, "Did I, really?"

Gray smiled and nodded. "You did. I'll never forget how bright your eyes looked each time you came up with an idea for a new story. You were always the prettiest girl, but, whenever you were in your element, I couldn't stop staring at you. You were so goddamn beautiful."

My heart thudded at his words. I sucked in a quick, short breath. His compliment was making my blush deepen for entirely different reasons.

Feeling awestruck and awkward, I didn't know how to respond.

Luckily, Stevie finished her bottle right then, giving me a perfect excuse to make my escape before I lost any more of my chill.

"I need to go check some work emails," I announced abruptly. "Can you burp Stevie?"

Looking somewhat taken aback, Gray widened his eyes. "Oh, yeah. Sure. Of course. Hand her over."

He held out his arms for his daughter.

I practically tossed Stevie at him before running away to hide behind my laptop. I bunkered down in the living room. They went out for a stroll around the neighborhood shortly after Gray finished burping Stevie.

As I tried and failed to respond to emails, Gray's suggestion for me to start writing again kept replaying in my mind.

It had been so long since I tried to write anything. Yet, I recalled a time in middle school when I wrote every day in class instead of paying attention to my teachers and every evening at home instead of doing my homework. Back then, I had dreamed about becoming a published author.

When I got to college, however, my parents and Lydia talked me out of majoring in creative writing. They suggested that I pick accountancy instead since it was a far more stable and well-paying career.

In retrospect, my family wasn't wrong. I made very decent money as an accountant. I never worried about paying bills on time, and I had even been able to set aside some savings for rainy days. There was really only one downside to my career choice: Staring at numbers and emails and spreadsheets all day while dealing with the drama of office politics didn't bring me much happiness.

In fact, I kind of hated it.

My brain always felt fried by the end of the work day, and I often dreaded waking up the next morning to drag myself back to my cubicle.

A burst of irritation unfurled in me at the thought of work. It prompted me to click out of my emails. I then surprised myself by opening up a brand new Google document.

Anxiously, I stared at the blank white page.

The blinking cursor.

The cursor stared back at me.

Then, like a woman possessed, my fingers started moving across the keyboard. Slowly, at first, then, faster and faster until my fingers began to fly. Words formed one after another. Words turned into sentences. Sentences became paragraphs.

Before I knew it, I was writing again.

Just a bit of stream of consciousness that probably only made sense to me. Anyone else who read my creation would think it was full of nonsense. It was certainly nothing revolutionary. Nothing worth sharing with others. If anything, it read more like journal entries than legit literature or prose.

I wrote a little bit about Lydia.

she is the sun,

I am Icarus,

if I fly too close,

she will melt my wings.

I wrote a little bit about Stevie, too.

light—shines through leafy canopies, casting shadow play upon stubby fingertips; clouds—imagined as castles and dragons cling to clear blue skies like storybook pages come to life; dew—on thread, on spider's web, drips, drops, onto pavement; these—are the small, simple, lovely things that Innocence sees.

I wrote a little bit about everything and everyone in my life except Gray. I wasn't ready to unpack the painful complexities of our relationship in words. That shit still felt too raw, too painful. I did, however, pour many of my innermost thoughts and feelings into that Google document, and, as a small, spontaneous smile crept across my face, I realized, then, that Gray had been right.

Writing made me happy.

The simple act of cementing my hurt, my struggles, my joys, my triumphs into words fed my heart in a way that felt indescribable. I hadn't known that I was starving, thirsting, for an outlet like this all along.

I didn't know where this Google document would lead me, but I decided to take Gray's advice to heart. Even with my full-time job, even with Stevie attached to my hip, I made a vow to start writing again every day. This was something small and meaningful that I could do for me and only me.

This was where I wanted to start my quest for my own happy ending.