We're both twenty-eight when I finish my first novel.

I'm yawning all day at work, but underneath my sleepy and yes-I-take-my-job-seriously demeanor is a smile. I finished it!

All seven years of the idea developing in my head, all three years of writing, all three hundred and nine pages of words. Words that I chose, words that tell my story. The very concept is astounding to me.

Annabelle, of course, knew that I had been writing all night.

"You left me all alone in bed," she complained that morning.

"You had Levi, right?"

"He likes you more than he lets on. And also, Levi is not the same size as you. You're nicer to squish. You don't have claws."

But she saw the twinkle in my eyes. And the bags under them. "Did you finish?" I had been working towards the end for a while now.

"Yep." I try and keep my voice level, though it shakes with excitement. Annabelle squeals and hugs me so tight my eyes would have popped out had we been in a cartoon.

To walk into work, where my acquaintances have no idea of the momentous milestone I've just passed, seems a bit run-of-the-mill.

But Annabelle and I celebrate in our own special way when I get home. The following day is Saturday, thankfully, and Jenna and Jacob make their way to our home and we go out to dinner together.