Plot: Y/N is a writer and is feeling discouraged. Andrew is her rock.
Word Count: ~1.4k
You’d begun the day feeling exhilarated. Last week, you’d pitched the perfect idea for an article to a magazine you’d always wanted to write for, and they’d actually accepted your pitch. In your head, you’d had the piece all figured out. You’d had a few sentences of the hook figured out, you knew the argument you wanted to make, and you knew how you would support it. It was going to be perfect. Your boyfriend Andrew was in his little soundproofed studio in the attic writing music, so you wouldn’t have to deal with any distractions for the time being. You knew this piece could be big for you and your career if you did it right. And then it was time to start writing. You looked at the notes you’d written. What was once a sheet of paper with so many brilliant ideas that they could barely fit on the page now looked like a jumbled mess full of nonsense and cliches. You could hardly figure out what each little quote was supposed to signify, or where it was meant to fit. All you’d had that made any sense were the first few sentences of your introduction paragraph, and even those had lost their shine.
You groaned and shut your computer. Your boyfriend’s dog, Elwood, whimpered at the sounds, looking up at you from his bed, his brown eyes shining. “Sorry, buddy,” you pouted at him, feeling guilty. He closed his eyes again, laying his head down on his paws. You didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t exactly writer’s block, because you knew what you wanted to say, you just didn’t know how to say it.
You’d gone from overflowing with excitement about writing to feeling a sense of doom about it. You decided to take a break from trying to organize your ideas so formally on your computer and decided to do things the old fashioned way. Roughly mapping out your ideas on paper in your notebook was a lot less pressure than trying to actually compose something on the computer. You got a lot farther with this method. After about an hour, you were able to make sense of the notes you’d written, which gave you a little bit of hope… a little. You realized that you weren’t going to make any more progress today, and went back upstairs to bed, feeling crushed and embarrassed. You drew the curtains closed and crawled under the covers, not wanting to be bothered with anything, not even the daylight.
You’d gotten your hopes up so high about this piece. You’d told your friends and gushed to Andrew for what felt like hours about it. He was so happy for you. He’d always been incredibly supportive of your career. He was your biggest fan. He always had praise for your drafts, no matter how terrible you thought they were. The two of you met at Trinity College before he’d dropped out. The attraction was instant; you’d both felt it the second you locked eyes. Before his career took off, he always drove up several times a month to visit you at school, playing acoustic versions of the demos he’d sent you.
Laying in bed, you thought about one the many late nights when you considered giving it all up and studying something more traditional, something that would provide you a more reliable source of income after graduation. “Who the hell makes a living as a writer anyway?,” you asked Andrew tearfully, desperately searching for peace while wrapped in his skinny arms. “Who makes a living as a bluesy singer-songwriter?,” he’d retort playfully, trying to make you smile again. “You’ll make it Andrew. I know you will. But I don’t know about me.”
You broke down beneath the covers, unable to hold it in anymore. That night was about six years ago. His world was entirely different, and yours hadn’t changed much at all. He’d found mountainous success doing what he was best at, while you’d accrued debt pursuing a degree you hardly had any use for. He made songs that millions of people loved, he’d been nominated for a Grammy for fuck’s sake, while you were having a meltdown over writing an article that most readers would flip past anyway. The realization of just how little you’d accomplished knocked the wind out of you. Your sobs grew louder, racking your entire body. You were crying so hard you could hardly breathe. You didn’t hear the door open, but you knew Andrew was coming towards you, which made you feel worse. You hadn’t meant to disturb him.
“Baby? What’s wrong? Did something happen?,” he asked softly, practically whispering. You could barely hear him through your sobs.
You didn’t answer. You felt too ashamed.
“Sweetheart? Tell me what happened. I thought you were working on your article today,” he said, knitting his thick eyebrows together in confusion.
“I’m not!” You yelled. “I c-couldn’t d-do it!,” you choked out through sobs.
“What do you mean, honey? Is something wrong with your computer, baby?,” he asked sweetly, rubbing your back.
“No, it’s not the damn computer it’s ME. I mean I can’t do it. I’m a failure. I can’t do it. I can’t get the fucking words out!” you yelled. “And now you’re here and you’re asking me what’s wrong and you have to tend to your needy girlfriend instead of getting stuff done and all I can do if be a complete bitch to you.”
“You’re not being a bitch, Y/N. And you’re not needy, and you’re not a failure. Don’t say that.”
You didn’t say anything.
“Can you look at me, love?”
You turned over. He was on his knees, kneeling next to the bed so he could be eye level with you. Neither of you said anything for a few minutes. He waited for you to stop crying, wiping your tears as they fell.
“Why am I like this?,” you asked, your nose stuffy from crying.
“Like what?”
“A failure.”
He pursed his lips, giving you a look. “I want you to stop thinking like that. I want you to stop being so hard on yourself.”
“I deserve it,” you deadpanned.
He cupped your cheek, staring into your eyes. “You don’t.” He let the words hang in the air, wanting them to soak in. “Can I hold you?”
“Please.”
He groaned as he got up and walked to the other side of the bed, pulling his side of the covers down, and getting into your bed. He lay on his side, facing you. He stroked your cheek again. “This isn’t about writer’s block,” he stated simply.
You sighed, hating how well he knew you. You couldn’t hide anything from Andrew; loving someone for years has that effect. “I don’t feel like I’m good enough for you sometimes.” You could feel his body tense up after you told him.
“Why would you ever feel that way? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, Andy, it’s not you, it’s me.” You didn’t want him to feel guilty for your insecurities.
“I graduated three years ago and I don’t have shit to show for it,” you answered, looking up at him.
“That doesn’t make you a failure and it damn sure doesn’t mean you aren’t good enough for me. Everyone has their journey, and- and they move at their own pace.”
“My pace is too slow.”
“Your pace isn’t “too” anything. You can’t compare your journey to anyone else’s. It’ll only make you feel... like this,” he said, his hand gesturing to the air around you. You stayed silent. He swallowed before continuing, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “No one is an overnight success. Ne one. But that doesn’t mean success isn’t coming. Hell, it doesn’t mean success hasn’t already come.”
“This isn’t success, Andrew.”
“Success doesn’t mean that everyone knows your name or knows your work. You thought I was successful when barely anyone knew who I was.”
You nodded. “It’s just hard, Andy. It’s so fucking hard not to give up sometimes.”
“I know baby, I know,” he said, shifting onto his back. “Come here, baby. Put your head on my chest.”
You worked your way into his side, your head on his chest, listening to the comforting sound of his heartbeat.
“You know I’ll never let you fall, my baby,” he said, holding you closer. The two of you fell asleep like that. You knew this wasn’t going to be the last time you’d feel like this, but you also knew Andrew meant every word he’d just said. And that was what you needed to get through times like these.
