I guess I was tired from the journey. When I woke, the room was dark, the ocean whispering beyond the window. I ordered dinner, ate in silence, scrolled through photos on my phone.
There we were—smiling, his arm around me, eyes warm. I traced his face on the screen, as if touch could summon the man I'd once known.
The photo details popped up when I accidentally swiped: March 1st. The day we started dating. His smile looked so real. So shy when I said yes to becoming his girlfriend.
What went wrong? Was I too blind to see? Too naive to realize I was being played?
The questions circled until sleep took me again.
Morning came soft and golden.
I woke determined to claim this island for myself. Years of watching influencers post about Bali, saving recommendations for "someday" with him—today, I'd finally taste them alone.
First stop: the Sacred Monkey Forest.
Humidity wrapped around me the moment I stepped inside. Sunlight filtered through ancient trees; the air smelled of damp earth and unknown flowers. Monkeys scampered across stone paths, their antics pulling a genuine smile from me for the first time in months.
I bought fruits from a vendor in order to offer a few to the monkeys. When I spotted a monkey nearby, I cautiously extended my hand. It approached, sniffed, then took the offering with delicate fingers. My heart raced—the connection felt raw and real. For a moment, I forgot the past entirely.
I wandered deeper, past moss-covered temple ruins and carvings that whispered of centuries. Sat on a stone bench near the central temple and let the stillness wash over me. Birds sang. Monkeys groomed each other in peaceful harmony. Something fragile began to heal.
On my way back, I couldn't resist the jewelry stalls lining the road. Silver and gemstones caught the evening light; my bag filled with trinkets, each one a small piece of Bali to carry home.
After lunch at a restaurant tucked between rice fields, I found a quiet café. The aroma of Balinese coffee wrapped around me like a blanket. Old cane chairs creaked beneath me; polished teakwood tables glowed with age. Something about the space stirred a deep nostalgia—the kind that aches in the most comforting way.
A gentle tug at my jacket pulled me from my thoughts.
"Excuse me... are you the writer Rosie Moore?"
I turned. A young woman, early twenties, stood with my latest book pressed against her chest. Her eyes shone with the particular light of someone who'd stepped into a world I'd built and hadn't quite found their way out.
For a moment, I couldn't speak. Rhys always told me my books never sold in Asia—"no demand," he'd said.
"Yes," I said to the woman. "I am."
Her face lit up. "I'm such a fan. I've read all your books—and Remember Me... it stayed with me for weeks. Could you sign it?"
She held out the book with trembling hands. As the familiar cover came into view, something stirred in my chest. Feeling of gratitude and humility.
I signed it. Thanked her for loving my story.
Remember Me follows a quiet community college student who falls in love with an Air Force pilot after rescuing and nursing him back to health. Following a deep romance, he returns to his life, leaving her behind. Unbeknownst to her, he later dies in a routine flight accident, but because she has no connection to his official circle, she never learns of his death and mistakes his silence for rejection. To cope, she constructs an elaborate inner world where she marries him, raises his children, and remains devoted to him—sustaining a beautiful illusion of their life together, built entirely from memory and grief. By the time the story ends, we realize we've been living inside her delusion all along. And she's been in a mental asylum this whole time.
I hadn't expected to be recognized here. The surprise warmed me.
Later, the same group of fans invited me to dinner. Their excitement was infectious; I couldn't refuse. That evening, I dressed in a soft floral dress and joined them at a small restaurant tucked between narrow streets and blooming frangipani. Wooden tables, woven lanterns, laughter mixed with ocean breeze.
We talked about books and travel. For the first time in forever, I laughed—genuinely, surrounded by strangers who felt like friends.
Toward the end of the evening, one of them handed me a small, ribbon-wrapped box.
"For you."
"You didn't have to—I'm honored just to share time with you."
They insisted I open it. Inside: a pen. Golden, gleaming, impossibly elegant. Intricate carvings along its body, each curve catching light like it held a secret. The nib shimmered with candlelight—sharp, regal, a blade disguised as beauty.
I felt its weight. And something else—a strange, electric pull. Almost a hum.
"Ms. Moore? Do you like it?"
I blinked. "Of course. Though now I feel terrible—I didn't bring anything for you."
One of them laughed softly. "Your books are our gift. You have no idea how much they mean. The way you bring characters to life—it's beautiful. We can't wait for the next one."
We parted warmly, reliving moments from my earlier works, clinking glasses, and for a few hours, I almost believed I was still that writer.
****
Back at the villa, silence returned.
Guilt twisted in my stomach. I hadn't written a new page in months. Their words made me feel like a fraud, smiling at praise I no longer deserved.
I set the pen on my bedside table. Exhaled.
Bring my characters to life. What if I never write again?
The thought circled. I was still under contract with PNH. With Rhys. Would he sue me now? Would he even bother to call? Should I?
No. Not this time.
I dragged my notebook toward me. Flipped it open. Stared at the blank page.
Nothing. Only frustration. Every line I attempted felt hollow.
"How long will this block last?" I muttered, running hands through my hair. "Did I burn out for good?"
A golden gleam distracted me from my thoughts. My eyes drifted to the pen beneath the lamp. I reached for it. Held it. The weight felt solid, alive—almost humming against my palm.
Slowly, without thinking, I began to write—
Kind. Not the kind that comes with conditions. Not the kind that disappears when you stop being useful. Just... kind. The kind that shows up when no one's watching, when there's nothing to gain.
Sensitive. Not fragile. Sensitive enough to notice when I go quiet, to ask what I'm thinking, to really want the answer.
Genuine. No games. No bets with colleagues. No performance for an audience. Just him. What you see is what you get.
I want someone whose whole obsession would be me. Not in a possessive way. In a — I can't believe I get to be with you — way. Someone who looks at me like I'm the best thing that ever walked into his life—not like I'm furniture he's gotten used to, not like a trophy he earned and can now ignore.
Someone who makes me feel seen. Not just when I'm on a stage, not just when I'm holding a trophy, but in the quiet moments. When I'm tired. When I'm unsure. When I'm just me.
Someone who talks to me. Actually talks. Not lectures. Not monologues. Conversations that go both ways, where my words matter as much as his.
Someone who waits for me. Who doesn't make me feel like I'm running to catch up.
Someone who tells me where he's going—not because I asked, not because he owes me an explanation, but because he wants me to know. Because the thought of me worrying for even a minute would kill him.
Someone who loves me. Not what I can do for him. Not what I can give him. Not my name on a book cover or my face in a magazine. Me. The person who gets scared and makes mistakes and sometimes goes quiet for too long.
Someone who reaches out even when he's angry. Who doesn't shut me out. Who doesn't disappear into his office and close the door. Who fights with me, not against me. Who wants to figure it out because losing me isn't an option.
And someone who wants to be my friend. My actual friend. The kind you laugh with without any reason, the kind who knows your worst parts and still wants to stay. The kind who doesn't need you to be impressive all the time.
The nib glided effortlessly, as though guided by something other than me.
Six feet tall. Full lips, soft taupe color. Dark brown eyes that turn lighter in sunlight. Lean muscle—his arms and back shaped with what the Japanese call "thread-like muscle." Not bulky, but long, seamless ribbons of strength shifting beneath his skin like ripples over still water. The refined power of a master archer drawing his bowstring. Precise, enduring, quietly beautiful. His chest firm, narrowing to a slim waist—the classic V-shape of a body crafted for movement. Skin the warm hue of sun-kissed sandalwood, smooth and taut over sculpted framework. A living canvas whispering of vitality, not vanity.
The words poured out of me, each stroke pulling something unseen from somewhere deep.
I don't remember falling asleep, but the morning light pried my eyes open.
Fatigue clung stubbornly to my muscles, especially my right arm. It felt heavy, numb, as if blood had forgotten to flow.
And then I felt it.
Warmth. Close. The slow rise and fall of breath that wasn't mine. I opened my eyes at the nagging discomfort.
And froze at the sight.