Recently, thinking about my novel hasn’t come with that same overwhelming feeling the way it used to. 

Not having to feel obligated to fix every little detail at once or even figure out which direction caused the story to fall apart and get all jumbled up. 

When thinking about my novel it’s been quite almost fun again. 

I haven’t restarted the entire thing–though that’s still hanging out on the table. 

Nor have I attempted any rewriting, simply to maintain my peace of mind. F

But honestly I’ve decided not to step away completely from it either. 

Going back and forth between “to scrape the story or not to scrape” I’ve found myself slipping back into something smaller. 

Not the entire story. 

Not even all the characters.

Just two. 

Sometimes the way back into a story isn’t through the plot— it’s through the people who made you want to write it in the first place.

HER

She’s almost always been the easiest to understand. 

Not because everything about her was laid out all crisp and clean, but because I understand her actions of self protection. 

She’s sarcastic. Guarded in the way that most people think she doesn’t care, when the truth is she probably cares the most. 

Letting people close isn’t natural for her. 

Not because she wants or even likes to be alone, but because she’s learned that trusting people comes at a heavy cost at times. 

So all she can do is try and keep control of things.

Keep her emotions in check, buried behind a wall so robust that most people will never reach–or attempt too. She never wanted to be the burden in someone’s life. 

And honestly… This is partly why she feels familiar to me.

Her ability to use sarcasm to deflect. 

How she almost says her true feelings, but almost always suffocate it down at the last second. 

Writing her was as natural as breathing. 

I didn’t have to think too hard about how she’d react or how she’d speak. She just… made sense. 

Somewhere along the way, I lost that. 

I lost her voice–my voice and that hurt.  

It was as if I locked myself inside this stiff room that was never intended for me to live. 

So now, after an almost constant, overwhelming shackle of misdirection, I’m trying to find her again. 

Not with scraping everything. 

Just by letting her take the first step towards leaving the room.

HIM

He’s different.

Not in a loud way that demands attention— just observant.

He notices things before other people do. The small shifts in someone’s tone, the moments where someone is struggling but trying not to show it.

He’s the kind of person who will help you without making a big deal about it.

And then act like it meant nothing.

Even though it did.

He carries himself with this calm confidence, but it hides how much he actually cares about the people around him.

Sometimes he’ll cover that with sarcasm too.

Not to push people away, but to keep things from getting too heavy. 

What truly makes him different is that he sees that parts of her that no one else really notices.

Not just obvious things.

The things she works to hardest to hide.

The fact is even when she’s surrounded by people—people who care deeply about her—she can never fully feel safe, safe enough to completely break. 

She’s always holding herself together. 

Carrying that constant quiet pressure to be strong, even though she’s hanging off the ledge. 

That state of being where most people don’t see

Or maybe choose not to to protect themselves from the pain that comes with it. 

But he does. 

To him she’s as clear as glass that’s never been touched. 

He sees without explanations.

He never forces connection or closeness. 

He simply… sits with a quiet understanding.

Silently staying in his own way.

I think that’s why I started with them again. 

Instead of the plot. 

Instead of structure. 

Just two people at the center. 

Because thinking of them never feels forced. 

It never feels as if something needs fixing or altered in any way. 

It feels… real. 

More Soon,

Quill