The Writer Finds Herself in a Rut

I have just realized that I actually have been calling Raine an array of names over the days.

Well…in my defense, I don’t blame myself. I have a lot going on right now.

My hand slid away from the journal, my brain completely empty of any will to write.

Dad’s going to be alright.

The words repeated themselves in my head like a mantra, but somewhere inside, I really did know that dad was not going to be alright.

That would be called a miracle. I’m a little short on those lately.

There was a rustle of fabric as the guy on his high horse sat next to me. Why does he insist on getting an answer out of me? Have I ever pressed for an answer out of anyone?

Well, to tell the truth, there aren’t many people I’m in contact with…excluding Emma, of course.

It’s her job to squeeze answers out of the hardest people.

The path of my train of thought went awry when something brushed against my hand. I realized it was the hem of his shirt.

My hand jerked away instinctively.

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