Page 128 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

The question catches me off guard. “Writing?”

“You’ve always had a way with words,” he says. “You see things differently. Writing might help you sort through some of this.”

I hesitate. “I don’t know if I’d be any good.”

“You just have to start.”

I nod slowly. “Okay. I’ll try.”

He smiles and squeezes my hand. “That’s all anyone can ask.”

After he leaves, I finish the paper quickly, the last few sentences coming easier than the rest. When I finally hit submit, relief washes over me, but it doesn’t last long.

Before I can close the browser, an email from the university career center catches my attention.

Publishing Internship—California.

Normally, California alone would be enough to make me scroll past.

I don’t.

I click the listing.

Editorial assistance. Manuscript review. Proofreading. Working with authors. Six months.

My pulse quickens.

I read it twice before opening the application.

Once it’s filled out, my fingers hover over the button longer than it should

Then I click Submit.

Instead of closing my laptop, I open a new document.

The cursor blinks at me, expectant.

What do I even write about?

The answer comes instantly.

Dylan.

The name alone sends a rush of memories through me.

His laugh.

The way he used to lean against the counter while I talked about books he’d never read, listening like it was the most important conversation of his life.

The steady reassurance in his voice whenever I doubted myself.

Loving Dylan changed me in ways I didn’t fully understand until he was gone.

It forced me to look beyond the safe, familiar edges of the life I built for myself.

And now that he’s no longer part of it, those edges feel smaller than they used to.

My fingers hover for half a second before moving, and then the words pour out. I write about how some people spend their whole lives waiting for courage. About how loving someone forced me to discover mine, then how I pushed him away when I was afraid of what that love might require.