Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 34243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 171(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 171(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Stop being so bitter about your mom, Ti!
It’s the thing I hate the most about myself, to be honest.
I know that my therapist is right. My mom is going through her own stuff, and until she’s sorted said stuff out, she’s going to keep faking her way to get what she wants. That’s her thing, and I just have to live with it. I can’t let Mom doing the wrong thing cause me to do the wrong things, too. Otherwise, it’s going to be an endless cycle.
I know all these things.
But it’s just hard, you know?
Easier said than done, ‘Nuff said.
But...whatever.
My trauma about Mom needs another dream. For now, I’ll concentrate on this dream, which revolves around Mr. Not Real here, whom I thought earlier was my mind’s conjured-up image of my dad. But maybe I got that wrong?
“Am I allowed to ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“I thought this dream was supposed to be me coming at peace with my dad, and that’s why I thought you were a younger version of him.”
“Ah.”
“Did I get it wrong?” I ask seriously.
“I suppose it’s time I should introduce myself.”
He wants to introduce himself for what? I’m starting to feel rather impressed by how imaginative my dream is. Maybe it’s time I reconsider my career options?
“My name is Arkane Young.”
Arcane...Young?
How is my mind coming up with all these things?
“Arcane” because this guy is a mystery I’m supposed to solve.
“Young” because this man is obviously based on a random memory from my past, like when I was young.
But just so I’m not reading things wrong...
“You’re saying you’re not my dad, right?”
“Quite so.”
I almost gag, like seriously.
Quite so?
That’s like telling me you’re rich without telling me you’re rich, and it’s just another thing I can easily imagine my own mom using, but...no, we are not letting that get to you, Ti!
I have to stop being mean to my own mom even if it’s just in my thoughts.
“My name doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?”
It’s Mr. Not Real talking again, and I gladly refocus my attention on him and his beautiful looks.
“I’m sorry,” I say honestly. “Should it?”
“No. It shouldn’t.” His lips curve ever so slowly as he says this. “And it’s nice that it doesn’t.”
Oh. My. Goodness.
I finally, finally figure out what this dream is supposed to help me figure out.
Because the way my heart has started racing again the moment I saw his lips curve?
“I finally get it now,” I whisper.
“Do share.”
“You’re supposed to cure me of my allergy to beautiful men.”
“So you think I’m beautiful.”
My hands fly up to my cheeks.
Oh no. Don’t. Don’t you dare.
But it’s too late.
Mr. Not Real, who’s technically a child of my own invention, has actually made me blush, and oh no, oh no—
It doesn’t even end there.
Because Mr. Not Real has just stood up, and he’s so incredibly tall, and the way he towers over me is making my heart skip a beat, and now he’s slowly walking towards me, closer and closer and closer—
Oh gosh.
My breath catches in my throat as Mr. Not Real leans forward, his hands settling on the armrests, and I’m suddenly trapped between his arms, and what used to be this ultra-luxurious and spacious chair now feels like a cage of my own making.
“You...are unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”
I can’t concentrate on what he’s saying. He’s just so, so close that his nearness...
I don’t even know how to explain it.
I’ve never been close to someone and had the closeness itself feel like a thing. A presence. I can feel the space between our bodies, the exact inches where we’re not touching, and that space is louder than the engines. Louder than my own breathing, which has gotten shallow in a way I’d rather not examine.
Oh, I just don’t get it anymore!
How is it possible that someone who isn’t real is making me feel things that are equally unreal?
“This...this isn’t making sense.”
The words tumble out in a moment of confusion that’s dangerously close to helplessness, because my brain, which is the one thing I own that’s never let me down, has just stopped working.
“I’m supposed to wake up once I’ve figured out who you’re supposed to be.”
“Very logical of you...” He says this softly even as the glint in his eyes turns rather wicked. Am I wrong to feel that Mr. Not Real is laughing at me? Is that even possible? For my brainchild to laugh at its own creator?
“But since you think this is a dream—”
He’s slowly lowering his gaze as he speaks.
“Shouldn’t you be thinking more along the lines of a fairytale?”
But it only makes sense when he ends up looking at my lips.
Gulp.
I can’t believe Mr. Not Real is making me swallow hard, and my mouth feels so dry, too, that I find myself unconsciously wetting my lips, which makes his nostrils flare, and—