Page 127 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“I think I needed something different,” I say finally. “A change.”

“Different can be revealing,” she says gently. “Sometimes the characters we gravitate toward say more about us than we realize.”

The words hit something tender in my chest. I swallow, staring down at the page. “It’s just easier to get lost in stories sometimes,” I admit. “Especially when real life feels… messy.”

Ms. Thorn nods, resting a hand against the back of the chair. “Messy means you care, Lucy. It means something mattered.”

“But what if you don’t know how to fix it?” I ask quietly. “What if you’re not even sure you should?”

She studies me for a moment, thoughtful. “Stories don’t always give us answers right away,” she says. “At least… they haven’t for me. Sometimes, all you can do is keep turning the page and trust that clarity will come.”

Her words don’t heal the ache, but they soften it.

“I’ll let you finish,” she adds. “Just don’t stay too long.”

“Thank you,” I say, meaning more than just that.

She walks away, leaving me alone with Lady Susan and the understanding that no matter how deeply I disappear into someone else’s story, my own choices are still waiting when I reach the end of the page.

***

I sit at the dining room table, my laptop open in front of me as I type the final paragraphs of my paper. The house is quiet, wrapped in that late-evening stillness that makes every sound feel louder. My fingers click softly against the keyboard, and every few sentences, I glance at the stack of textbooks beside me, mentally ticking through citations, making sure I haven’t missed anything important.

The paper is due tomorrow. I’m almost finished. And yet, the harder I try to focus, the more everything else crowds in.

I push my chair back and stretch, rolling my shoulders in an attempt to shake off the tension that’s rooted there. Just a few more lines, I tell myself. Then you can submit it. Then you can breathe.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Once I submit it… then what?

Graduation? Life begins?

The question lingers, frustrating and unanswered.

“Still working on that paper?”

Dad’s voice startles me. I didn’t even hear him come in.

“Yeah,” I say, turning toward the doorway where he’s standing, arms crossed, an easy smile on his face. “Almost done. Just trying to wrap it up.”

He steps into the room and pulls out the chair across from me, sitting down with a quiet sigh. “You’ve been working hard. That’s good.” His gaze sharpens slightly. “But I can tell something’s weighing on you.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek, buying myself a second. This conversation has been circling my thoughts for weeks, but saying it out loud feels harder than I expected. “I guess I’ve just been thinking a lot about the future.”

Dad raises an eyebrow. “Graduation’s coming up fast.”

I nod. “Everyone else seems to know what comes next. Dylan always did. You did. And I just…” I trail off, annoyance flaring in my chest. “I feel stuck.”

“Stuck how?” he asks gently.

“I don’t know if my life is really supposed to stay here,” I admit. “I love this town. I love home. But lately, I keep wondering if I’m meant to do something else. Something bigger. And I don’t know how to tell the difference between fear and instinct.”

Dad studies me for a long moment. “Not knowing right away doesn’t mean you’re behind, Lucy. It means you haven’t found the thing that feels like yours yet.”

“What if I never do?”

“Then start with what you already love.”

His words loosen something I didn’t realize I was holding onto so tightly. Then, he tilts his head. “You’ve always loved stories. Have you ever thought about writing one of your own?”