Maybe I need to get a second job.
Something in the evenings, maybe. Bartending? I don’t even drink. Dog walking? I love dogs, but I’ve seen the aggressive ones at the park—I’m not trying to die before thirty. Cleaning? Honestly, I just wish I could get paid to read books. Nowthatwould be the dream.
I hug my knees to my chest, the water cooling around me, the bubbles starting to fade. But maybe I can postpone facing the real worldfor a bit longer. I’m not ready. I don’t wanna deal with applications, loans and an apartment search that feels impossible.
Instead, I’ll do something just for me.
My blog.
My little corner of the internet—just me, my thoughts, and a bunch of strangers who love yelling about fictional characters in the comments.
I started it during the pandemic, when everything felt too big, too loud, and way too lonely. When the days blurred together and my brain wouldn’t shut up.
Writing helped. Sharing helped. Connecting helped.
Now it’s where I ramble about books and tropes and fictional kisses that make my chest ache.
Maybe I’ll write a post about comfort reads. Or how loss hits hardest when you don’t see it coming.
Or maybe I’ll just make a list of the best fictional men who fall first.
That feels like the kind of content I need right now.
I sit up in the tub, bubbles sliding down my shoulders, already drafting opening lines in my head.
I reach for a towel without opening my eyes—only to grab air.
My hand flails. I sit up straighter. Look around.
No towel on the hook.
No backup towel on the edge of the sink. Just one more reason crashing at your brother’s place is a nightmare—no laundry schedule.
I blink at the empty bathroom like it personally betrayed me. “Oh, come on,” I mutter, water dripping off my nose.
I could’ve stayed at Nina’s, but I don’t want to be her permanent houseguest, turning every week into an emergency sleepover. She’d say it’s fine—she always does—but I hate feeling like a bother.
Frustrated, I shout, “Seriously, Liam?”
He’s not even home. Iknowhe’s not home. He texted earlier saying he’d be back soon, but I never heard the door.
I glance at the bath mat on the floor.
It’s small. Fuzzy. Questionably clean. But… technically fabric.
I groan, stand up, and reach for it, water streaming down my legs in defiance.
Wrapping it around myself is like trying to wear a tortilla. It barely makes it around my hips. There’s gapping. There’s side-boob risk. There isnodignity.
Still, the hallway is only a few feet away. The linen cabinet is just around the corner.
No one’s home. Just grab the towel and retreat. Quick and painless.
I crack the door and peek into the hallway—just in case Liam came in and I didn’t hear it. Flashing my brother? Not on my list of life goals.
Silent.
Safe.
