I sat on my bed and looked around the room, still half-filled with unopened boxes. I’d been too busy planning for today to fully move back in. Jeremy and Otis had been over a lot; Mom was loving the company. And when May showed up with snacks and showed my mom how to knit, we’d somehow become a little patchwork family.
Still, I couldn’t shake the John-shaped shadow in the room—or the way everyone else had seemingly decided he didn’t exist. I knew it was for my benefit, yet, the utter refusal to even mention his name was louder somehow.
I set my champagne glass on the floor and crouched beside a box I hadn’t touched yet. I knew what was inside.
My sequined jumpsuit sparkled against the spines of the books like scattered stars.
My gaze landed on the one that used to sit in the shop window. The one Otis had quietly removed when all of this began. An unnecessary gesture, but a kind one.
I ran a fingertip over the author’s name. Then took a deep breath and opened it.
Inside the dust jacket, his photo stared back at me.
The shock hit like a punch to the chest. I braced myself on the floor. Like a recovering addict, I’d gone cold turkey—blocked his socials, replaced every online mention of his name with cat news (yes, there’s a plug-in for that). Lately, I’d even had moments without daydreams. Without what-ifs. The stress of saving the store had kept me grounded.
But now here he was—black and white, in my hands.
I cracked the spine and started skimming.
I’d once overheard a customer say they didn’t read fiction because it wasn’t true. Because it was all just lies dressed up as stories.
Well, here in my hand lay 796 pages of John’s words.
Written by a man who knew how to lie.
Because there was nothing of him in there. Not one sentence reflected the man I knew—or thought I knew. These pages read like a son trying to impress his father.
I was just about to close the book for good when I noticed an interview printed in the back. Skimming through the usual plot questions, my eyes snagged on one paragraph.
Interviewer:What’s the one piece of advice you’d give to aspiring writers?
John:First of all, you don’t have to be young to start writing. Write when you’re forty, fifty. Hell, if your fingersitch to write at eighty-five, do it. Don’t overthink it. And never compare yourself to other writers. No one can do what you can do.
Interviewer:Meaning?
John:No one can tell a story the way you can. I see new writers afraid to share their work, scared someone will steal their “unique” idea. But the truth is, you could give a hundred writers the plot ofThe Standand you’d get a hundred different stories. No one else has your voice. Unless you're Sanderson finishingThe Wheel of Time—that's a different story. Write from your soul.
Interviewer:You’re often praised for your plotting, but your characters feel very real. How do you approach that?
John:If you love what you’re doing, your characters come alive. I let them lead. I just follow.
And just like that, something flared inside me.
A spark of clarity. A jolt of recognition.
I finally understood why I hadn’t been able to write my Captain the way she deserved. My own fear of love had clouded her choices. I’d been the one holding her back.
I bolted to my laptop, nearly knocking over the chair. The screen’s harsh blue glow stung my eyes as I opened the file.
And wrote.
As blue light faded into the warm haze of dawn, I saw it—what Caruso had been trying to tell me all along.
Jupiter’s light filled the cockpit. Serene leaned in. This might be the last time she saw her companion—her best friend. And with that thought, something in her broke open.
Captain Caruso pulled her lieutenant close, and kissed the woman she loved.
I logged back into my fan fiction account and uploaded the story.
