019 | Writing A Book

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"Everything feels to real."

//

Roseanne's P.O.V

* * * 

I let out a sigh of pure happiness as I roll over in my bed. The sheets are so soft. 

Wait, my bed. 

I sit up fast and look around to see that I'm in my room. 

How did I get here?   I thought I was at the hospital. 

"Ace told me to bring you home. Girl, you were knocked out. My asthma was rising just from trying to get your behind in and out of the car. It was a workout." Noah said, smacking his lips with sass. 

I almost jump out of my own skin. He scared the mess out of me. 

"I'm not even that big, Noah." I said, with a small frown. 

"When a person is asleep, all of their body weight triples." Noah explains. 

"It does not triple. I think it just doubles." 

"That maybe true for some people. You're not one of those people. Trust me honey, yours triples." Noah said. 

I laugh at his words.  He is such a drama queen. 

I hear Noah shuffle at the door, the sound of keys jangling in his hands. 

"I'm leaving, I have a date. You have the house to yourself. The front doors and back doors are locked. If anything happens you can use the panic button or call Mrs.Popkin. I'm sure she is still in her house, she barely ever leaves. Uncle should be here in an hour, he's at work. Tiffany will be around later, she wants to cook dinner, and catch up." Noah said, in a hurry. 

"Okay. But who's the lucky lady, that you're going out with?" I said.

I hear Noah gasp like he's offended. 

"What makes you think it's a girl? I could be going out with a guy." Noah said. 

I smile in his direction. 

A guy. 

"We will talk about this later. I have to go." Noah said, squealing as he ran out the door. 

I laughed. I'm so happy for him. He better tell me all the details when he gets back. 

I get up and get washed and dressed. Then I head to the kitchen to get a pop tart and a cup of juice. 

I sit at my desk in my room and start typing away on my typewriter. I've been working on a book for about a year now. With school and my constant need for more paper for my typewriter, it's been a process. But the process is coming to a close. I'm happy about it too. 

My book is about this girl who falls in love with a dangerous guy, but she didn't know he was dangerous, until he just one day snaps. The balance between love and hate is heavy in the book.

As I'm writing the book it starts to feel too real to me. But writing a book always feels real. Right? It becomes a part of you, until you finish the last page of it. 

The emotion dripping off the side of the pages. Like a murder trail that only ends when you find the person that did the crime.

I continue to write, until I get tired. 

I lay on my bed, my eyes closing. 

My mind and heart feeling conflicted. 

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