There's something horrible about the feeling of not being able to make a deadline. A couple weeks have passed—weeks of trying to avoid Ottilie's stare on set, of avoiding Gina like the plague, and of trying to keep Roz entertained while also getting work done—and, honestly, I have nothing.

It's the Friday before my Sunday deadline, and I feel like I'm drowning. Or, perhaps better put, scrabbling helplessly at the stone walls of an abandoned well, not even bothering about making my way back up, but trying my best not to drop into the murky stillwater below.

God. See? I can't even think of good metaphors, let alone write them.

I'm sitting in the Brew, at my favorite table, with my laptop open and my head in my hands. There's something horrible about this—about not being able to write. It eats away at me, a deep, burning pit of shame. I've been trying everything I know, too. I've turned my font to Comic Sans and changed the color to purple; I've taken a train into Queens and coffee shop hopped to try a new environment; I sat down on my bed and attempted to "interview" my main character, one of the first writing tips I ever picked up from Spilling Ink by Anne Mazer and Ellen Potter, a writing advice book for kids.

Back in middle school, when I'd first leafed through it, the questions seemed easy. Of course I knew my characters' happiest memories. I knew what would make them laugh so hard that soda would shoot out of their nose, and I knew what they didn't want anyone to find out about them, and I knew what they considered to be the best parts of their personalities.

Today, I silently asked my character what her happiest memory was.

She didn't answer.

After at least an hour of bouncing between games of solitaire (I can only win on easy mode), quickly lost games of Snake, and a disturbingly blank page, I think I'm officially on the verge of losing my shit. I keep deleting what I've written. Well, not really "deleting" it—I keep cutting and pasting everything over to a document labeled "GIRL WITH FAMILY ISSUES GRAVEYARD." It's at around three-thousand words.

I've never, ever been blocked like this before.

So, finally, after a moment, I give up, opening up my Romance Draft 2 document and leafing through the first chapter. Maybe ... maybe I can just submit this. I mean, fuck, I have a whole book written. I could just edit those chapters to better suit the conflict and then work it out from there, if needed. I mean, I think the undertones were there. And it's only three chapters. If they choose it, I can work it out. It'll be fine.

There's a tap on my shoulder. I remove my headphones and look up.

"Heyyy. Here's another matcha for youuu," Daniel says. The whipped cream top wobbles when he sets the ceramic mug on the wooden table. I glance up at him, frown, and open my mouth to tell him he shouldn't have, but he cuts me off—"You look like you're on the brink of a mental breakdown. Take the matcha."

"Fine," I relent, sliding it towards me. With my headphones off, I can clearly hear the bossa nova Daniel has cued up over the Brew speakers, as well as the pained, breathy rumbling of my decrepit laptop. "Thank you. Add it to my tab."

"Girl," he says, "you know I'm not letting you pay for that."

This happens too often. "Daniel—"

"Nope!" he says, crossing his arms so that his muscles bulge against his button-up. "You're, like, my own personal LinkedIn. You know so many famous people. I'm scratching your back, and then you let me breathe in your cool friends' air, and then I feel cool by extension. It's a fantastic little reciprocal thingie we've got going on here."

I'm pretty sure he's just saying that to make me feel better. "Well, I'm glad I can be a point of contact for you."

"You should be," he says. With a quick glance back at the counter that reveals nothing but that college girl I tipped heavily to spite Nigel, he quickly pulls out the armchair across from me and sits down in it. "Dude, Daisy followed me on Instagram."

"Oh?" I say. I suppose that makes sense. So ... is he being serious? "That's cool."

"Like, I know I've met her in person more than once, and we've had really cool conversations, but like, she's so cool," he says. "I mean, like, I've been following her since we were in high school. She really helped me feel comfortable with being pan, which I feel like would be weird to tell her, but I will never not love her for that."

I legitimately didn't know that Daniel was pan till this moment—I thought he was straight-up (pun not intended) gay.

"And like, honestly, I love her cinematography," he says. "She knows what she's doing. I love her videos, Marcie. Love, love, love."

"Yeah," I say, nodding like I totally understand. "Of course."

"So," he says, leaning in, eyes wide, "she followed me, and then DMed me to talk more about cameras, and now, we're going to meet up and do a little shoot together at Central Park. Is that not the most amazing thing you've ever heard of, ever?"

"That's pretty cool," I tell him, almost surprised they've bonded so quickly. "Actually, I had no idea you were so into cinematography and such."

"Oh, big time," he says, nodding. "When I was a little kid, I went through this whole Grand Budapest Hotel phase—yes, it's violent, don't look at me like that, it's great—and got really into film. If my parents hadn't been so adamant about doing something medical, I think I'd have gone to film school."

"Wait," I say, "that's really cool. And, also, this reminds me. I haven't given you your birthday presents yet."

He smiles. "Seeeeee. I knew you didn't forget."

There's a pang in my chest. "Um, yeah. I'd never."

"Y'know, I—" The door opens, and Daniel glances over, standing up almost immediately when a group of four walk into the Brew. "Okay, just give it—sorry, presents, them, oh my god—to me after my shift, if you're still here."

I flash him a quick (hopefully not panicked) grin and turn back to my laptop. I'm on the second to last page of my romcom's first chapter. Slowly, I find myself scrolling up to the top of the document. Considering how insufferably personal that last minute pitch to Ilan and Cassidy felt, and how embarrassingly similar this main character is to myself, maybe it makes sense that this character, Isabella, could share similar struggles.

I hit control+H and replace every instance of "Isabella" with a slightly less conspicuous name—although it takes a bit of thinking on what would be a good replacement. I figure this main character was born a bit after me, in 2006 or something. Isabella was a popular name that year, but it feels too similar to my own. In the end, I end up going with a name farther down the list: Addie. I leave her last name as Scott, though. It still manages to suit her perfectly.

Somehow, the new feels a little soft butch to me. Like a cool girl who plays soccer and keeps her nails as short as possible. I don't know. I don't know if I even know my thoughts make sense anymore.

Am I spiraling?

Instead of letting myself think too long about that, I decide to go ahead and look through the first chapter. It's not right—not if I'm going to submit it for that other pitch. I change the beginning to Addie and her mother walking through Target together, while Addie's mother tries to pressure to buy a throw blanket Addie knows she will have absolutely no use for.

"It'll be adorable," her mother insists, hands c̶l̶u̶t̶c̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ white-knuckling the s̶c̶r̶a̶t̶c̶h̶y̶ p̶o̶l̶y̶e̶s̶t̶e̶r̶ knitted fleece. "It's pink. You like pink."

Addie's gaze darts up and down the aisle, scanning for people her age who might witness her humiliation. Not that she thinks there's anything wrong with pink—s̶̶h̶̶e̶̶ w̶̶a̶̶s̶̶ a̶̶n̶ i̶n̶t̶e̶r̶s̶e̶c̶t̶i̶o̶n̶a̶l̶ f̶̶e̶̶m̶̶i̶̶n̶̶i̶̶s̶̶t̶̶ she liked pink, for other people. Her room back home had been largely bare, consisting of little more than a sophomore year orchestra concert poster and a full-size mattress she'd worn a giant d̶i̶v̶e̶t̶ d̶i̶v̶o̶t̶ h̶o̶l̶e̶ indent into the left side of some time in middle school. Her bedding there had been grey, a darker, warmer shade than her sparsely decorated walls.

"Mom, I don't—"

"It's cute," her mother says firmly, like it's final. She tosses the fleece blanket into the cart, and Addie can't help but ascribe the sudden smugness in her mothers grin to this small success.

I write a few more pages—Telma (2D Gina) (Real Life Gina also feels like a 2D bitch at this point in my life) shows up, and Addie's mom is too busy looking at bath towels to notice Addie finally has a decor item she likes and is engaged in a battle over it. Then, I reread everything and realize it reads strangely in present tense, so I change it to past tense. Soon enough, I've flown through one chapter, and have no desire to stop.

So, I write a second chapter. Addie's mom embarrasses her when she meets her cool, hot, older PA, Robin (her name doesn't change), and then—as before—Addie meets her roommate for a second time. I nearly change Telma's name, but I keep it, instead changing her last name from Ruiz to Campbell. I don't think I can disassociate the name itself with this character, but I want her as disconnected from Gina (as a person) as possible.

And, honestly, I don't know if Gina would ever read my book, but y'know what? I'd like to ruin the name for her too. Just a little bit.

So, instead of making Telma a cheap, cartoon copy of Gina, I decide to change things about her, from little tidbits to her most fundamental aspects. This Telma becomes a sort of dream femme girl, a Scandinavian-descended (her last name changes again, this time to Thorp), white-blonde girl who looks like she hopped straight out of a Hollister swimsuit ad.

Her attractiveness becomes less interesting. The gap in her teeth is written away and replaced by a dazzling smile, and her eyes go from a dark chocolate to a chilling wintergreen. Addie can tell she's gay right away, some kind of magical gaydar moment. Maybe it's her rubber duck earrings or her immaculately placed rings, almost one per finger. Or maybe it's just the way that she eyes Addie in a way that's almost hungry when she walks through the threshold to their dorm. Addie herself isn't entirely sure—and neither am I.

Addie's mother, for her part, is delighted to see that her daughter has Telma as a roommate. "She's the kind of girl you want to stay friends with," Addie's mother insisted, rubbing her daughter's shoulder while she stared across at the now-empty half of their small, white-walled dorm. "I think she'll steer you in the right direction."

My matcha has gone cold by the time I finish the second chapter. I'm halfway through the third before I even remember that it's there. I take a chilled sip and study what I have written on this page. Daniel obviously added a bit of condensed milk to the matcha, and it gives it a sweeter, thicker quality. "Decadent" is the only word that really comes to mind. I really need to start paying for these drinks. Or, at least, dropping more tips into the tip jar.

I've just finished the third chapter—I'm not as happy with it as I am with the others, but I think it'll be quick to edit—when there's a hand on my shoulder.

I look up and, surprised, immediately pull my headphones off. Roz smiles down at me, her nose wrinkled slightly. "Hi," she says quietly, squeezing my shoulder. "What's up?"

"Nothing much," I say, setting my headphones down on the table. I didn't expect her to come here today. "Just writing. What are you doing here?"

"Have you eaten today?"

I hesitate. "I've eaten several matcha lattes? Oh, and a stale muffin."

"It's as I feared." She holds up a plastic bag and lightly swings it against my arm. Even through my thick, oversized crewneck, I can feel the heat emanating from the bag. "I vaguely remember someone having a bit of a Pad Thai craving a few weeks ago. I found a new place near my apartment and thought I'd come see if you wanted to partake."

"Hm," I say, already reaching out to shut my laptop. "I guess I could be convinced to partake in some Pad Thai."

"I'll even beg, if needed."

I tilt my head, lips pressed together almost pensively. "Begging would be nice."

"Oh, Marcella. Please, Marcella, please. Please, eat some of my yummy, yummy Pad Thai."

I stretch nonchalantly and reach out to shut the lid to my loudly humming laptop. "I think you might need to beg more."

"Oh, darn." She tries to pout, and even though she doesn't quite nail it—she's trying too hard not to smile—it's still adorable. "What if I convinced you in another way?"

My body seems to slow down. Everything becomes this intrigued little thrum. "Well, that would depend on what way you're thinking of?"

She leans in, bracing herself against the wooden table and the back of the armchair, her baby pink, short-sleeved T-shirt riding up her back as she leans in. Her soft breath tickles my ear as she whispers: "Come upstairs, and I'll show you."

Her words immediately turn to hot liquid between my thighs. I drink the rest of my matcha like a shooter, only wincing slightly at the too-sweet gathering of condensed milk at the bottom, then grab my laptop and headphones and slide my chair back so I can stand. Roz laughs, taking a few steps back to give me space. I stand and grab her hand with a playful sort of roughness.

"You're coming with me," I tell her.

"Oh, noooo," she says, following as I tug her behind the counter.

"Wait, oh, sorry about the matcha mug," I say to Daniel, who's fiddling with the roaster in the back room. "I forgot it, but—"

He glances down to my hand in Roz's and gives us the closest expression to a smirk I've ever seen him make. "No worries," he says, waving us along. "Enjoy."

I scoff loudly and head up the stairs, a giggling Roz in tow. There's no one in the kitchen or living room, but I can hear Verdi blasting from the bathroom (I think Nigel is responsible for at least 90% of our water bill) as we tiptoe through the hallway to my room.

My bed is unmade, and there's a half-empty cup of coffee and a crumb-filled plate on my bedside table, but otherwise, there's not much mess in here, amazingly enough. It's nearing sunset now, and my East-facing window is now largely devoid of all light. My bookshelf desperately needs to be organized—it's covered in new books and my ARCs, as well as the books I got for Daniel and have managed to spend weeks forgetting to gift him—and my laundry hamper is arguably a little bit too full, but I've been waiting to go do laundry till it's absolutely necessary, because I don't want to have to do more frequent laundromat trips than absolutely necessary.

Roz stands in my doorway, her gaze wandering around the room. It's definitely small compared to her bedroom, and even pales in comparison to the one I shared previously with Gina, but it's good enough for me. I reckon it's around nine by eleven feet, which is about all I need, honestly. Still, I wonder if it looks small to her. Pathetic, even.

"Hi," she says, setting the plastic bag on my bedside table.

"Hi," I say back. "So, how were you planning on convincing me to eat your dastardly Pad Thai again?"

She grins, tucking her raven curls behind her ears. "Get on the bed, and I'll show you."