Darling : Hey, do you remember when we first met? 

Queen : embarrassingly yeah 

Darling : I was thinking that maybe you could write a story about us.

Queen : oh my

Queen : got it - dominatrix au for you 

Darling : NO 

Queen : awwww

Queen : i think it'd be pretty cool, you already give off lil mariko vibes 

Darling : I don't even know who that is. 

Queen : culture, darling. she's culture 

Darling : I think just us as we are would be entertaining. 

Queen : but then I'd have to write myself as i am, i don't know her 

Darling : Culture as you call it? You're entertaining. And you simply made a first impression not many could forget so easily. 

Queen : you caught me at a weird time in my life definitely 

Darling : Weird time in your life? Just one of those? I thought it was your entire existence perhaps.

Queen : ha ha ha I do not like when you are both right and smug about it 

Darling : I have confidence in your sincerity.

Queen : well i guess i could write about us meeting. 

Darling : Don't forget the next day we met either. 

Queen : i am regret in this moment

—— RE:ACT ——

I knew I was going to be late. This realization almost took my breath away. Not once. Not ever. Have I ever been late in my entire life. And now here I was, rushing to meet a deadline for yet another author who thinks I should worship the ground they walk on. I received a degree so I wouldn’t have to hustle anymore and yet here we are - juggling three jobs with a negative account balance to show for it. I glanced at my phone as I raced my way through town in my dinghy mom van. Top notification was a text from my ex. You know what - I quit. I quit trying to be a human. I’m gonna be a house plant. A pretty house plant that exists only to be watered and fed. 

A sharp right turn took me out of my fantasy and into the real world as the 4 way came into view. I put my phone down on the passenger seat and sighed softly. The author I’m editing for at the moment is some big league New York Times bestselling writer who thinks his copies sold equals his self worth. He needs another intern not a small time editor to deliver his manuscripts at the last minute. Can’t use email? Text? Messenger? This man cannot even fax his precious manuscript? We have to drive across town in the middle of lunch hour traffic? Ahhhhhhhhh.

I slammed on the gas as soon as the light went green and high tailed my way to the publishing office. Passing by rows of cars, I thought about the text message on my phone. I didn’t read what it was but I could guess. 

We’re very different people, Marcus. You’re only focused on yourself. You never take the time to think about me? You really think anybody cares about you becoming an editor? They only care about the author. 

Marcus, why are you always so pent up? Why is everything always a problem? You’re making a big deal out of this? You can never take a joke. 

Marcus, I love you. 

No you don’t. You never did. You just loved telling me how to feel my emotions correctly. You just loved the control, you asshole. 

My hands started to tremble on the steering wheel thinking about everything that had happened in the past few weeks. Yet I held back tears. I have to do my job then I can go home, scream into my pillow, and take a nap. 

I turned into the publishing office driveway and parked at the front of the small brick building. Turning off the van, I stepped out and rushed to the door with manuscript in tow. Walking so fast I was almost flailing towards the front desk, I signed the intake form with a doctor’s signature and held the manuscript out to the receptionist. 

“Arthur Patterwock’s latest masterpiece, I assume.” , the pretty green eyed girl said with a smile. 

This is more like the most pretentious garbage he’s written yet. This thing is full of r/menwritingwomen tropes. 

I nodded yes and chuckled then looked in the reflection of the glass pane surrounding the front desk to see a small blonde woman curled up in the corner. Dressed in a long yellow sundress and gray hoodie that was scrunched up to cover her entire face, she appeared to be fast asleep. 

“I did get here in time, correct?” I said and turned my attention back to the receptionist. 

“You did, just in time honestly. I wish we didn’t have to enforce these strict deadlines here all the time.” She said truthfully. 

“It’s fine, as long as I got the job done.” 

I glanced back in the reflection of the blonde woman. 

“Is she going to be okay?” I asked. 

Her look turned immediately to one of pity. 

“Oh her? She’ll be fine. She comes here everyday asking for a contract. Sometimes she says she’s gonna stay here until she gets one. She always goes home after a little while. Ultimately she’s harmless.” 

“Does she have a manuscript?” I wondered aloud. 

“She has a half completed manuscript and a lot of ideas. But no financial backing. It’s not even completed yet.” 

“Does she have a name?”

“Guinevere. But she prefers anything else I’ve noticed. I’ve been calling her blondie.” 

I understand that. I’m not the biggest fan of my name either. My parents saved up for a pretty crib with their soon to be son’s name engraved on it, only for their “son” to be born a little baby girl. So they went with the name decision anyways and gave me the name Marcus. 

“But yeah… she’s probably pretty tired. Today is day 2, I’m placing a bet she’s not making it to day 3.” She said and opened up a magazine to start reading. 

I turned around and walked over to the sleeping woman and felt incredibly sorry yet  proud of her. I know how it feels to be constantly told your ambitions will go nowhere.

She’s so pretty… 

I went to walk out the door when I felt a tug on my shirt. She was awake. And her eyes were blue. My heart was beating.