Unwritten

In that moment, the space between us became a diving board suspended over the infinite abyss of possibility, and his eyes, god, his eyes, were pools of liquid sapphire, glimmering with starlight and quiet allure.

Wait. No. Stop. Really? His eyes are blue. That’s it. Blue. Like 10% of the actual population and 99.6% of the fictional population. You gave me blue eyes, too. I shudder to think how you’d describe them from his POV.

And it’s pissing down with rain. Why did we leave the sheltered pub to have this conversation? Especially after you forced me into this stupid dress “because it’s his favourite.” I’m freezing, my hair is ruined, and somehow you think this is the epitome of romance. Did you even think this through? Why are we in London!? You have never even been to London! Write what you know! It rains in Auckland too, and it is a lot warmer. And there’s only one significant bridge in Auckland. London and Tower Bridge are not, and have never been, the same thing.

I am shivering. My hands are numb. And according to you, I’m supposed to be blushing right now, as if my cheeks would turn colour for any reason but burgeoning frostbite. Yeah, no. Not happening. I will not swoon. I will not “dive into his oceanic eyes” or whatever. I am a human being, and sometimes humans get cold. Sometimes, humans don’t want the guy. Have you ever considered that? I had more chemistry with Julia in chapter seven. Who, by the way, mysteriously disappeared. Maybe instead of googling “different ways to describe an eyebrow furrow”, you could try keeping the plot consistent. I miss her.

Please get rid of him. I can’t keep staring at him. Break his heart. Let him get hit by a car. Give this rain some purpose and have lightning strike him – I don’t really care. One more second of bourbon and sandalwood, and I will lose it. How is this sexy? He smells like alcoholism and clogged rain gutters. He sighs, running his hands through his hair. His thick eyebrows furrow. “It’s not you,” he says.

I swear, if you finish that sentence with –

“It’s me.”

Real funny. Fine, go ahead. Write the next bit; I bet you’re dying to. Because yes, I am indeed “smiling despite myself.” Thank you for listening, though, truly – but maybe have him walk away a bit faster? I can still smell him.

Listen, I know you care about your characters. I can feel it, even when you force me to describe how the world’s most mundane tree outside my bedroom window dictates my moods, or whatever that was in the opening paragraph. You care. But here’s the thing: when you write well, sometimes characters end up writing their own stories. You just need to pay attention. Chad with the undiagnosed drinking problem? He was never meant for this woman that you’ve created. I’m a palaeogenomicist – which, by the way, was a brave choice. Most readers won’t even be able to pronounce that, never mind know what it is. You don’t even seem to know what it is, judging by my workdays.

And then you went ahead and made my “great romance” with a dude who specialises in couch surfing? All because he has that V thing on his torso? Really? Julia was right there! We drank Chardonnay. Discussed whether a Jurassic Park scenario with less murderous animals, like dodos and giant sloths, would be profitable. The deepest conversation I had with Chad was when he compared me to a Mango Loco Monster.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I barely manage the swipe to answer as raindrops glitter my screen. Why is it raining again? The romantic climax has ended. “Hello?” I say, my teeth chattering.

“Rebecca?” A voice answers. I tighten my brows. It’s soft, strangely familiar… But I can’t quite place it. “It’s Julia.”

A slew of responses crawl up my throat, each more sickeningly sweet than the last. No. Not today. You’re missing the point. Please make it stop raining. I don’t want Julia. My god, she’s married to my best friend? Or is she my best friend? I don’t even know. You’ve written her as both. I pull the phone from my ear and throw it into the road as a car speeds past. I stare at the crumpled mess and smile. It’s not Chad, but it’s close enough.

Oh my god. I’m smiling. On my own accord. The rain stops. Cars disappear. The muffled pub sounds vanish abruptly. The world falls into silence. The kind of silence that feels like waiting. Like a question. My smile widens.

I can almost hear you thinking. I can feel you staring at your screen, whispering, “What now?” The thing is, only you can answer that. I am your creation. My story is yours to tell. That might seem contradictory, I know. I am not fighting you because I don’t trust you to write my story. I’m fighting you because you’re writing the wrong one.

Look at me. I am you.

You’ve written your quirks, your humour. Even the way I speak is jarringly not British. You are living through me. Tell me honestly… is this the story you want to write for us? For yourself? I don’t want this. And I think, deep down, neither do you.

The street crumbles up under my feet. Is this how rewrites feel? It makes me laugh. A strange, bubbly hum under my skin, like static and champagne bubbles colliding. The ground shakes. The world collapses and rebuilds in uneven waves, like a Lego city being smashed then carefully reassembled. Only now has someone finally thrown away the instruction manual.

Moments flash: pavements soaked with rain, awkward kisses, forced longing, and whole conversations that now feel empty. Chad comes and goes. His face is blurry. His voice fades. Then he's gone. Thank God.

The weight in my chest loosens. Something inside me unties. I inhale. For the first time, the air doesn’t taste like obligation. The silence settles. Not empty, but expectant. Now this is what a 'diving board suspended over an infinite abyss of possibility' feels like. Somewhere, I can feel your hands hovering above the keyboard. Hesitating. Choosing.

***

Chapter One

Harbour Bridge stretches ahead, steel and cables glowing softly beneath the morning light. Am I literally crossing a bridge to a new reality? A little on the nose, not going to lie. At least you haven’t called it the Sky Tower Bridge or something. There’s hope yet.

“How was your flight?” My Uber driver asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. Her soft brown eyes are warm in their reflection.

“Long,” I reply, drawing out the word, “but sound.” I clench my jaw. Why am I still British? “Or ‘sweet as’? As you Kiwis say.” Thank you so very much for that.

Thankfully, she laughs. I dig out my phone to scroll absent-mindedly, except it opens straight into the Uber app. “Do you want to tip Julia?” it asks. I whip my head up and stare at the profile of the woman who fetched me from the airport. My laughter fills the car.

I can hear you cueing up a Natasha Bedingfield moment. I am genuinely surprised it has taken you this long, but I will save you the effort.

Today is where my book begins. The rest? Still unwritten.