The Writer Talks About Herself

Breakfast was a quiet affair. He seemed a little…absorbed. I had made some eggs and pancakes, and drizzled it over with maple syrup; I don’t know about his tastes, but this was one of the most commonly made meals around my house.

Scooter is trying to sit over my hands, and my penmanship is slowly going to the dogs due to his humongous efforts to sabotage my writing.

“Why do you write so incessantly?” Raine asked, and I put my pen down.

“I’ve been living alone ever since I was nineteen. You learn how to entertain yourself,” I shrugged, shutting my journal for the umpteenth time.

One of the things I cannot stand is an invasion of privacy. Over time, I’ve become a stickler for keeping personal information to myself—especially from Emma.

“Don’t you have any friends?” Raine continued, and I nodded.

“One really good friend, but she lives almost halfway around the country.”

“That could be a problem.”

I nodded bleakly.

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