Sneaking out proves more difficult than I expected. In the end, I have to dig an old pair of flats out of my closet, slip them on, and climb out my bedroom window. Thankfully my werewolf genetics have made me a little sturdy, so my legs don’t sting too bad as I land in the grass. I sprint away from the house like a thief after a robbery. I can worry about getting back in when the time comes.

When I reach the square, Ryuji is soaring in, wings stretched in the late afternoon sunlight. He lands on the lip of the fountain and folds his wings. I jog over to meet him.

“Ryu?” I ask, not really sure what it is I’m doing here. The two-way notebook is still clutched in my limp hand.

Ryuji places his hands on my shoulders and steers me over to the nearest bench.

“Sit.”

I sit.

“Tell me what’s going on. And don’t tell me it’s nothing. It’s written all over your face.”

A weak laugh escapes me. I hunch over, dropping my face into my hands. Where do I even begin. All of this has been burning inside me for years now. How do I boil down a lifetime of pain and heartache into mere sentences?

Ryuji sits on the bench next to me. He stays silent, waiting for me to speak. Wind blows through the square, rustling loose papers that some poor writer must have lost. They dance by, words scribbled across their sullied surfaces.

“My mom searched my room.” There. Start with the easy part. “She hates the fact that I love writing. She wants me to go to business school and has been hounding me about it for years now. So that I can make money and pay for Anwell’s hospital bills.” Anger builds inside my chest with every word, until they’re spilling out, years of pent-up emotion pounding across my tongue and into the empty air.

“It’s all for Anwell. Everything she does is for Anwell, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of her always expecting me to be him, to live his dreams, his life. I’m sick of her always taking everything away from me and expecting me to be grateful for it. I love my brother but I’m tired. I’m so, so tired.”

My chest heaves with every ragged breath I take. My throat tightens. “And my story—I was planning to enter the contest because if I win, then that money can pay for his bills and Mom will get off my back, and maybe I can prove to her that what I love isn’t a waste of time. But I can’t do that now because—” I grip my shirt, and I swear I can feel my heart breaking all over again. “Because…because she destroyed it!”

Ryuji gapes at this. He puts his hands on his head. His eyes glisten. “No. She…?”

I nod, unable to say more or I might start screaming. I wipe at the tears that run down my cheeks and focus on my hands in my lap. “And…and who even knows how much longer I have left because of this stupid curse? That—that was my one chance.” The words are squeezed from my aching throat in a strained whisper.

I’m shaking, and I can’t stop. I grip my arm over the curse mark, my fingernails digging into the fabric of my sleeve. Tears trickle down my cheeks. I swipe at them, angry at myself, at Mom, at everyone and everything. The fountain before me blurs in my vision, and it looks as if the words on the statue’s open book are melting away. “I can’t do anything to please her. It’s like…it’s like I’m a fish swimming backwards. Like I don’t know which way’s the right way to go. Just a broken, hopeless fish unable to to the right thing.”

Silence fills the square. Ryu’s wings rustle, and he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. His brows bend toward his nose as if he’s thinking hard. I look away, toward the fountain, not wanting to see his expression. An ugly feeling grips me, like I shouldn’t have said anything at all. Like all I’m doing here is wasting his time.

I shouldn’t have come.

“You know, I think that’s a perfect analogy.” He says this as I prepare myself to stand. I freeze and look at him. He’s looking at me with those beautiful dark brown eyes.

“We’re all fish swimming backwards. Some of us are just better at faking like we know what we’re doing. All those people you see and admire, thinking they’ve got their lives together and figured out are just as lost as you are. And you know what? In the end, you have to swim in your own current. Your Mom can’t control you any more than you let her. It’s up to you what you do with your life. Not anyone else.”

Up to me? What an overwhelming thought. I want to choose for myself. I do. But Mom… Is he right? Have I been letting her control me? But how do I stand up to someone like her? She’s my mom, after all. I’m supposed to obey her. Listen to her. Do what she says.

Your Mom can’t control you any more than you let her. I rub my hands across my cheeks, wiping away the last of my tears. I guess, in a way, I have. Buckling to everything she demands of me because it’s easier than fighting back. Because I’m terrified of having a part of me destroyed again.

Up to me. He’s right. It is up to me. I decide whether or not I want to write. I decide whether or not I want to eat or sleep or go to school. In the end, they’re all my choices. And while most of them align with Mom’s thinking, there will always be moments when we disagree. She may not like it, she may hate me for it, but I can’t stop. I can’t stop the need to write. It’s what I was born to do. I feel it, deep in my bones. Even if I never become famous, or wealthy, or liked because of it, I won’t stop. I’ll never stop.

First, however, I need to find the courage to start.

“I want to write,” I croak, my throat raw.

“Then write.” Ryuji turns to face me, looking me in the eye. “Write, Keelin. Create. Soar. Don’t ever let anyone tell you to stop, or that you’re not good enough, or that you’ll never make it. That’s not what’s important. What’s important is that you are able to put those words on paper and make something real out of them.”

I smile. Something real. Yeah. That’s all I really want. Something real.

It's dark when I get home. Fresh snow falls from the sky and I shiver, my shoes now a soggy mess. But I embrace the cold, letting it soak into my bones until it feels they'll crack under the pressure. That's exactly how I feel inside. Fragile. Brittle. But not broken. Not yet.

I climb inside through the window and kick off my shoes, leaving them on top of a towel so the water won't soak into the floor. Making my way to my desk I switch on the lamp. The light is blinding after the deep darkness of night. I sit in my desk chair. Pull open the bottom drawer. Grabbing a fresh notebook I slap it onto my desk.

My head pounds, my eyes hurt, and my cheeks are chapped from crying in the cold. But I can't put this off until I feel better. Grabbing a pen, I start to write down an outline of all I remember of what I wrote before. The words are sloppy, the ink heavy, but I don't care. I won't let Mom win again. Not this time.

No matter how many times she destroys my work, I won't stop. I can't stop. Even if I hate every word on the page, even if I wish I could do anything else, I can't stop the need to put words to paper and create a whole new world. A world where there is no magic, no curses, a world where the soul is the most precious thing. Something to be cherished, to hold in high honor. A world where creators are revered and not trampled.

A world where I can exist.

A twinge of pain runs through my arm and my fingers spasm. My arm jerks, the pen drawing a line across the page. The pen falls from my aching fingers. I grip my wrist, teeth gritted, waiting for the pain to stop.

The curse is growing. It digs deeper beneath my skin, wrapping around my bones, crawling up my arm toward my elbow. When the pain eases, I release my arm and pick up my pen once more. I don't look at the curse mark. There's no point. If I do, I know I'll break down and I can't risk that.

I have to finish this story before its deadline. And before my own.

Images of Anwell circle my mind like hungry sharks. Of the angry red curse that marrs his body. There's nothing I can do for him now, at least not yet. But I know if he were awake, he'd want me to do something for myself. I smile as I think back on the days when things were perfect. He always encouraged me to pursue my dream. I can imagine him saying, Go write that story, Kee. And when you win that prize, go and show it off to the world. Let them know we McConaughys can't be beat.

I sniff and rub at my eyes before the tears can fall onto my paper. I write. Because if I don't then I'll just be denying myself. That's something I can never do again.