Page 210 of His Reckoning

Kayla

Melissa’s apartment is quiet. Not in a bad way, just … still.

It feels predictable and safe, which somehow makes it worse.

I sit at the edge of the couch with my laptop open in front of me, the blank document staring back, like it’s waiting for something I don’t have.

It’s been open for twenty minutes, maybe longer.

I haven’t typed a single word, not even a sentence.

I exhale slowly and run a hand through my hair, leaning back against the couch.

“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Just start.”

That’s always been the trick.Don’t overthink it, don’t plan, just write something—anything.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, then settle back into my lap.

Nothing comes. Not a line or an idea, not even a bad sentence I could fix later.

I stare at the screen harder, like that might force something out of me, but it doesn’t.

My brain won’t go there. It won’t stay in the story or in anything that doesn’t lead right back to him.

Sawyer.

The way he looked at me. His voice changed when he said I used him.

My chest tightens.

I shut the laptop halfway, then open it again immediately.

No.

I’m not doing that. I’m not shutting down over this.

I push myself forward again, planting my elbows on my knees.

“New book,” I say quietly. “Start something new.”

That’s what you do. That’s what writers do when something doesn’t work.

You move on and start fresh with new characters—a new story.

Something that doesn’t feel so tied to everything that just fell apart.

I take a breath and open a new document.

My fingers move slowly this time, with much hesitation.

I type a sentence and read it, then delete it immediately.

“No,” I whisper.

That’s not it.

I try another line with a different tone.