I can't write like before.

I stared at the ceiling, lying on my bed. I felt like I just had a long dream I can't even remember, but one name lingered like a ghost unable to move past death... Vincent.

I sat right straight up and grabbed my hair. No, I can't be the Vincent of Jadiebugs. I won't be someone who intruded their lives then disappears without a word. No one deserves to be left hanging.

I got up from my bed and went to my laptop. I'll just make a short announcement. I won't be like that guy who used me... he turned me into a subject study for a story he refused to finish. Yes, we were suppoosed to finish it together, but he left without a word. Jadiebugs deserves at least a closure. I know how it feels, my conscience can't take it. To be the same person as the one I hated. Anything but silence. 

My heart was hammering against my chest, I could even heart it beating in my ears, ten years had passed but thinking about him makes me so mad. I started typing...

Hey Jadiebugs,

I'm sorry for being inactive in Watty for more than a month. I've read many of your comments and I am always, I say always grateful for the overwhelming support you have for my stories. It has been more than ten years since I started my journey here, we have come a long way. And those who are still waiting for A Thing of The Past know that I didn't abandon you to this story. I am already working on the next chapter as I speak. Once the chapters are completed I promise to publish it in bulk, I am aiming to finish it by this year.

I ended up erasing the last sentence. Lies. A huge lie. I haven't even written a single word for it. And to even think of finishing it this year? Stupid. You'll end up disappointing them again, Jade. Making promises you'll only end up breaking. I pulled my hair and stared at the papers scattered on my desk. Why did I start this story anyway?

It's all that guy's fault! I don't even remember what he looks like. Was any of it real? I don't know. The blank document stared back before the screen went dark. I looked at my wall and stared at the comments I printed.

Why exactly did I start writing again? Why did it matter so much to me?

I opened my writing profile once again and scrolled through my message board. A message from two years ago, four years ago, six years ago... all saying the same thing—where is the continuation of A Thing of the Past?

I could feel my hands tremble as I scroll through my replies. Same old promises I always break. And Jadiebugs always replied with kindness, with understanding, and love. They're always willing to wait and hold hope in me.

I want to finish this story so bad, but... only a blank page stares back at me. I am so sorry. Everytime an additional number comes at the start of the year, the heavier the weight in my chest becomes.

Before I knew it, tears started streaming down my cheeks. From beginning until the end, there are Jadiebugs who have always been there for me. I covered my mouth, trying to suppress the sound.

But I failed. I bawled my eyes out as I read every message in pursuit of finding why exactly I started writing. I can't find the answer for that, but reading the messages I could only find the answer for why I am still writing.

I clicked on one of the familiar profiles. A writer just ike me, we started writing at the same time and it broke my heart a little when I noticed her last update was from five years ago. I wonder how she is, I hope they're happy even if they're no longer writing. What is life outside writing?

I scrolled through another profile and paused—oh, I remembered her. She was really good at writing back in the 2020s. Book clubs were trending then, and she had been one of my partners. I loved her stories. I wondered how she was doing now; I bet she had made it big too.

However, when I clicked on her message board, it felt like the sky had fallen to earth.

'No intention of going back. I'm abandoning my stories, and might delete this account for good.'

Fear began to loom over me. My vision blurred slightly. Will I end up like them too? I went back to my own message board and scrolled further. My eyes drifted to the cabinet beside my table. I opened it and instinctively grabbed the ocean-covered notebook.

He is real. Vincent is real. I scanned the pages—his handwriting proved it was all real.

Maybe the question I should be asking myself is... would I have started writing without him? 

No. I shook my head and lightly tapped my cheeks. Wallowing in all these questions won't complete your stories, Jade. Not today. Not ever, if I let it continue like this.

I opened the blue app. Yeah. Let's start there. Something practical. Something fixable. I typed tips for writers. Maybe their routines could help me write—yes, that must be it. My current writing routine isn't effective anymore. That's all it is. A system error. A habit gone stale. Google really didn't help much, so let's learn from my fellow writers then.

I stared at the search bar as if it could hand me back the version of myself that used to write without thinking.

They said to read other stories. I did that already—multiple times—but I still can't write. They said to create an outline. It doesn't have to be perfect, just a simple guide. But it felt too constricting, like I was locking the story in before it even had a chance to breathe. They said to set a goal—an hour a day, or even just a hundred words.

It worked for them, so why? I am still on the last word I wrote six years ago.

I tried to follow every tip, but every time I thought I was ready to write... nothing. And when I am able to write, it felt distant and forced like a ghost narrating life.

I closed my eyes, feeling my sudden shift of laboured breathing. My visions tarted to blur. I need to get to my bed, yeah, that's what I need to do. But like my body remembered before my mind did, I reached for the ocean-covered notebook instead. Its pages were already browned with age, edges curled like they had been held too many times and left alone for too long. My fingers hovered for a moment before touching it

I breathed in as if my life depended on it, finally finding the courage to open it.

I reread the words on the pages, my fingers tracing my messy handwriting. Hoping, just maybe, I would find the answer hidden within the words I once wrote. I know I enjoyed writing this before, I could see it, I remember it but I can't feel it now. Something is missing, like a piece of me left behind in ink that no longer belongs to me.

My eyes squinted when I noticed a small scribble at the bottom of the page. It was Vincen't handwriting asking why I decided to write with him. My heart skipped a bit, but it felt like the sound of it echoed in a hollow space as I read my reply.

"Because I have a story to tell."

But I didn't remember writing it. And at that moment, I wanted to speak to my younger self—grab her by the shoulders and ask what she saw that I no longer could. What should I do? I still have stories to tell, at least I think I do. After all, I have so many ideas I can share. But why? Why can't I write even when my head is filled with these concept of the unwritten world?

If having a story to tell isn't enough to make me write anymore... then what is?

The question echoed louder than the silence around me. I hate this. I couldn't find a single answer, only more questions piling up. I stared at the page, waiting for it to answer back, as if the ink might rearrange itself.

But it didn't.