Eugene hadn’t moved in hours.

The blinking cursor on the screen pulsed like a heartbeat—taunting, expectant, silent. He stared at it, fingers poised just above the keys, but unmoving. Around him, the office was dim, lit only by the dull amber of his desk lamp and the faint blue hue of his monitor. Mugs with dried rings of coffee cluttered the desk. Crumpled pages lined the floor like fallen leaves.

This was supposed to be it—the final chapter of Glass.

A series that had started with a quiet spark, a single paragraph scribbled into a weathered notebook six years ago. He’d poured his soul into the story—into Elara and Rowan, two broken people finding love in each other’s cracks. Women had written to him from around the world, praising how honestly he captured heartache and desire. Thank you for writing someone like me, they’d say. Thank you for showing that love can be gentle.

It wasn’t just a story anymore—it was a promise.

And Eugene was terrified of breaking it.

His publishers called weekly now, reminding him of deadlines wrapped in warm tones that couldn’t hide the weight of expectation. Readers flooded his inbox, asking if Elara would finally get her happy ending. He wanted to give them that. But every sentence he wrote felt like a betrayal—either too forced or too final.

He hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Or maybe the day before. Time had melted into a blur of static and stress. His stomach ached in a distant, hollow way, like a fading radio signal. He ignored it.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

Soft footsteps crossed the room—the kind that always made him feel safe, even when he was fraying at the edges. You didn’t speak. You never interrupted when he was in this state. But he could feel the worry radiating off you in waves—the hesitation in your steps, the way you hovered by the couch instead of walking directly to him. You were holding something. A plate maybe? The scent of food—warm, buttery—floated toward him, and he realized with a guilty twist that you must have cooked. Again.

He didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. If he saw the concern in your eyes, he’d unravel completely.

You walked slowly toward his desk, gently moving a stack of half-finished drafts to set the plate down. Then, you reached for the blanket that had fallen off the back of his chair, draping it over his shoulders with the kind of tenderness that made his throat tighten.

A soft hand rested briefly on his back. Just long enough to say I'm here without a word.

He finally spoke, voice hoarse from disuse. “…I don’t know how to end it,” he whispered, barely audible. “What if I ruin everything they love about it?”

He didn’t expect an answer. Just your presence. And when you quietly pulled a chair closer, sitting beside him without a word, he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

For the first time in days, Eugene reached out—not for the keyboard, but for your hand.