“Emily, your next book needs to be a romance,” my agent exclaims, locking her gaze onto mine.

I groan loudly and roll my eyes. I came to this meeting fully expecting those exact words from Mara, but that doesn’t make them any less irritating now that she has actually said them.

“You know I need at least one romance from you, Emily. I think it’s time to give psychological horror a break and try something new, like romance,” she adds.

“You know I can’t write romance, Mara. I’ve told you that dozens of times,” I hiss, struggling not to sound too rude. Even though she’s used to my short temper and occasional rudeness, I always try to respect her. After all, she’s the woman who sells my books to publishing houses.

“You don’t want to write romance because you don’t believe in love. However, that doesn’t mean you can’t write about it,” Mara insists. “Besides, you’ve been in love before, haven’t you?”

I keep staring at the beautiful woman across from me, scrambling for a plausible lie—or, well, an answer.

Yes, I’ve been in love before. Unfortunately.

“You can’t fool me, Mily. You don’t talk about your private life, but I can see it in your eyes—you know what it feels like to look at someone and have your breath stolen away,” she says, smiling.

“I really don’t want to write a romance. Please, let me do something else, like fantasy, sci-fi, or anything.”

“Romance it is, then,” she smirks, rising from her chair and heading for the door. She opens it and glances back at me. “Send me the first ten pages as soon as possible, please.”

I roll my eyes again and leave her office without saying another word.

“By the way, you need to work on your manners because you’re too stubborn,” she calls after me, laughing.

I step into the elevator and let the doors close, not bothering to reply, mostly because she’s right—I do need to work on my manners.

* * *

One hour later, I finally pull my red car into my apartment building’s garage, thanks to the city’s stupid traffic.

Jeez, why does everyone have to drive? Why can’t they ride bicycles and shit? Argh. Who am I to talk? It has been years since I last walked from point A to point B, and don’t even ask when I last rode a two-wheeler.

“What took you so long?” Hansel, my roommate and best friend, asks the second I walk in. “You’re late for our dinner with Charlie and Faith.” He glares at me.

“Don’t blame me. Blame the stupid traffic,” I shoot back, heading straight to my bedroom. I need a shower to loosen the tension in my shoulders; otherwise, I won’t be able to enjoy dinner with my friends.

“How was the meeting with your agent?” Hansel follows after me.

“Why did I ever decide to become an author again?” I huff, digging clean underwear, jeans, and a basic T-shirt out of my wardrobe.

“Why? Did Mara ask you to write a romance again?” He laughs.

“She didn’t ask. She practically forced me… and this time, I couldn’t even say no.”

“Do you know what you’re going to write about?”

“Love and shit.” I shrug and step into the bathroom.

“Love and shit? That’s a classic.” He bursts out laughing.

“You know what’s classic? You following me into the bathroom instead of giving me some privacy while I undress for a long, hot shower.” I shoot him a murderous look.

He flinches, nods, and backs out, suppressing the rest of his laughter.

Relief washes over me as I step under the hot stream of water, letting it melt away the tension and replace it with calm. I love living in the big city, but sometimes I miss the small, quiet one where my parents and most of my friends still live.

I moved into a college dorm when I was eighteen, eager to leave my old life behind and start fresh in the city of my dreams. What I didn’t count on was my three best friends following me here. Still, I’m grateful for their loyalty and for making sure I was never alone.

As a twenty-three-year-old woman, I can’t complain about what I’ve accomplished so far. Three of my books have been published worldwide and embraced by readers. Mara is one of the best agents in the business, and I was lucky she spotted me before I even finished my Literature degree. On top of that, my roommate is my best friend, and my other two closest friends live right around the corner.

Regardless, the meeting from earlier replays in my head, and the word romance won’t stop echoing. 

Why do I have to write a romance book? Why can’t I stick to aliens, ghosts, and otherworldly dimensions? 

I hate everything related to love, which is probably why I’ve been single for four years—being single means no dates, no distractions, and no emotional messes. It’s just me and my work.

“Mily, are you okay in there? You’ve been in the shower for more than forty minutes, and I’m kind of freaking out,” Hansel’s worried voice cuts through my thoughts, making me realize I’m basically turning into a fish.

“Sorry. I lost track of time again,” I yell, stepping out of the shower and rushing to get ready for dinner with our friends—the upside of being hopeless at makeup is that it doesn’t take long before I step into the living room looking fresh, clean, and ready for a night out.

“Come on. Faith and Charlie are already waiting inside the restaurant,” Hansel informs, holding the door open and gesturing for me to go first. “You know how Charlie gets when we’re late.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t stop thinking about the romance book I’m supposed to start writing tomorrow. I’m stressing out because I have no clue what to write,” I admit, flashing him an apologetic smile.

“It’s time to let go of the past and start making new memories in the love department—good ones,” he remarks as we step into the elevator together.

“You know I don’t have time for that because I’m too busy trying not to disappoint my agent, who, by the way, told me I need to work on my manners,” I grumble, annoyed.

“She has a point, though. You’re lovable most of the time, but sometimes you’re… not so lovable,” he snorts.

“Shut up. Says the man whose last girlfriend dumped his ass because he fell asleep at the worst possible moment,” I snap back, reminding him of the woman who lost her shit when she realized he had passed out in the middle of something important.

“That was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. At least I’m not terrified of falling in love again just because everything went to hell with my ex, unlike you and your whining ass.”

“Go to hell,” I hiss, flipping him the finger.

“You know I’m right, don’t you? You keep feeling sorry for yourself because you had bad experiences, and you won’t let those memories fade. You hold on to the idiots who broke your heart just to remind yourself that love sucks and you’re not cut out for it,” Hansel snaps, not caring about the pool of tears forming in my eyes. “You need to grow up and let that shit go, Emily.”

“You know what? I’m done for the night,” I mutter, not following him as he steps into the elevator. “Have fun with Faith and Charlie.” I wave as the doors close.

“Emily, wait,” he calls, but it’s too late, as the doors have already shut, and I’m on my way back to the apartment.

A minute later, my phone buzzes with his text, but I don’t open it. Why would I, when I already know what it says? Complaints about me being irritating and selfish, as always.

Back in my bedroom, I change into pajamas and settle on the bed with my laptop. I switch off my phone so I won’t be disturbed by missed calls or unread messages, then open a blank document, ready to start writing my next book—and possibly my next failure.

“I can do this. I can write a stupid romance between a boy and a girl, and I can make readers fall in love with them,” I mumble before my fingers hit the keys.

“The girl loves the boy, and the boy loves the girl—until he breaks her heart, and she becomes a madwoman with no heart. The end.”

“Nope. That won’t work.” I shake my head, delete the words, and start again.

“The girl falls for a boy whose heart is the most beautiful she has ever seen; so much so that she believes she has found the one and lets him into her soul—until he betrays her and breaks her for good. The end.”

“Goddammit.” I grit my teeth as I erase the words again.

“The girl is happy because she kissed the boy of her dreams—until he leaves her for her best friend, and she feels like shit. The end.”

“That’s it. I give up,” I snap at myself, slamming the laptop shut. “I can’t do this shit. I can’t write about love when I don’t believe in it. I mean, why would I?” My words echo into the darkness, chased by the memories that always find me in these solitary moments.

All I can see are the three boys whose faces once made me dream and cry—who carried me to heaven and then shoved me straight to hell in a matter of minutes, thanks to their behavior and my stupid heart.

Love is a wicked feeling I despise, and I am never, ever going to fall in love again. I made that promise four years ago, and so far, it’s working just fine.

* * *