The Writer and Her Nothing

When I arrived at Mrs. McCarthy’s doorstep, I was perpetually drained.

My feet felt like macaroni that had been boiled to death, and my hands were white – and I was pretty white on my own.

“Is something the matter?”

“No, no, nothing at all,” I replied, smiling.

Mrs. McCarthy stared at me for another second, and then turned on her heel towards the kitchen.

I huddled inside my jacket, wishing for my robe.

I was so cold.

“Can’t fool me with that ‘nothing at all’ jargon. Something’s the matter.”

I practically shot out of my shoes at hearing Raine’s voice so close to my ear.

“Wha—? Eh…I meant to say…well, you see…”

He watched my carefully, observing my every nervous mood.


“Nothing. I found nothing.”

“You did, did you?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Nothing.”

“Nothing with a big dose of ‘lie’ next to it.”


Those peculiar cobalt eyes were watching me again, and I felt my resolve creak under his silent gaze.

He folded his arms across his chest.

I’m in for it.

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