- I don’t feel like writing.

  - But I need to. I have to.

  - If I stop, I might stop being me.

  ---

  I sat behind a dumpster with a can of cold beans and a Swiss Army knife that’s more rust than utility. My shirt was torn. My leg was bleeding. My heart felt like someone chewed it up and spit it out.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  And all I could think was:

  Don’t stop writing.

  Even when you’re tired. Even when no one’s reading. Even when you’re alone again, and the girl you thought would stick by you turned out to be the first person to leave you to die.

  Especially then.

  So I opened the journal. Flipped past the cake incident, the RC car diversion, the sticky note shrine.

  And I wrote.

  Not because it was funny. Not because it was insightful.

  Because it reminded me I’m still here.

  I made a joke in the margin—“Note to self: Betrayal burns more than chili peppers.”

  I didn’t laugh. But I smiled. A little.

  Maybe tomorrow I’ll come up with a better tip. Something smart. Useful.

  But today?

  Today I committed to the bit.