Forgotten Wife: My Ex-Husband Regrets It After I Left novel Chapter 138

138

Sienna’s POV

Livia’s gaze softened.

“Sienna, writing ain’t a forecast. It’s a pick. You can pick a joyful ending or a sour one, that’s your choice. But don’t let fear trap you. If you keep back, this tale will always seem half cooked.”

My hands gripped the side of the table. I breathed out weakly,

“I want to write a happy ending but I’m scared.”

She leaned back, her eyes full of calm trust.

“Scared is normal. But now and then, putting joy first can be the first step toward really trying to go after it.”

I kept quiet, then slowly showed a sour grin. “You always know how to find my soft spots”

She laughed. “That’s a job of mine, to make sure writers do not hide from theirselves.”

I looked out the window for a bit, seeing folks hurry past, then turned back to her.

“I’ll give it a go, I will write more truthfully. I can’t say it’ll be perfect but I swear I’ll quit hiding.”

Livia’s grin grew, happy. “That’s all I need. Trust the way you do things, Sienna. You are stronger than you think.”

We talked about facts, how the story flows, if chat sounds right, and how to set up chapters. Livia shared a lot of thoughts with me, but her way was nice; she never made me feel like I was messing up. In between, she threw in words that made me think more about my own life.

Time went by without a thought. My coffee was half gone, while Livia’s papers were full of new marks. I felt more free, even if my eyes still had the load of no sleep nights

I took one more drink of the cold coffee. The flavor was a bit harsh, but weirdly good in my mouth, like taking in reality. Not always nice, but still okay.

“I like how you stress beat,” Livia said, pointing at one of her notes in a notebook. “You got this easy feel for letting feelings go through stops, not just words.”

I frowned. “Do I stop too often?”

She laughed softly.

“No, that is your specialness. Those breaks are like air in your words. Readers can sense them.”

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I stayed silent, pondering. Perhaps she was correct. Even when I had diaries, I frequently left phrases dangling mid–idea like if I needed room to take in my own emotions.

“I never saw it as a strength,” I murmured.

“That’s why you need a person to remind you,” Livia said softly, her eyes bright with belief.

I watched her softly. Livia wasn’t only a helper or guide she was a link helping me move ahead once

more.

The café got more busy, talks mixing, but still I could focus on her words. From the kitchen came the light smell of warm croissants blending with the scent of fresh coffee. It was strange, comforting, like the world outside could wait a bit longer.

“Let’s talk about your main character, and she responded with a serious tone, not pushing it. She’ll be like my reflection, but not quite.” I find it fascinating if you had the courage to be more candid in that aspect.

I bit my lower lip.

My honesty can lead to people seeing the dark side of me, which I don’t want to admit.

“Isn’t that the essence of writing?” she questioned quickly. “You may feel intimidated to walk through doors, so why bother?”

I took a deep, long breath. Her words were reassuring, but they held true. Writing was always my authentic self, without any veil over it. The truth was too raw and revealing, which is why I had

stopped.

“I’ll give it a shot,” I whispered softly, with resolute determination.

“Good.” Livia wrote on her paper and then glanced at me once more.

“People’s lack of interest in reading is due to their desire for flawlessness.”

Their motivation for reading is to prevent isolation.

The warmth she expressed was as savagely strong as the words she spoke. Maybe she was right. Writing down my fears could potentially make someone feel understood.

Once more, I drank coffee at a leisurely pace, experiencing the experience in varying ways.

Is it possible for you to give me some insight into our lives?

Despite my hesitation, I nodded off. “Shut up.”

“Why did you refrain from writing for an extended period?” She asked.

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I was compelled to head towards the window and watch people pass by because of this inquiry. I felt like giving a half–hearted response, just to give her the answer. It was clear to me that Livia wasn’t the type of person who would be content with that.

I whispered, “I’ve lost myself,” and there was a time when I thought that writing would only serve to intensify the pain.

I stopped, hoping that it would bring about a better outcome.

Livia didn’t interrupt. With a sharp focus, she gazed at me without my conscious response.

Still, I wasn’t better off just for stopping. I felt empty, my voice breaking slightly.

She extended her arms and rubbed my wrist lightly with her fingers.

“You’ve made the decision to not be occupied anymore. That’s a brave step, Sienna.”

While looking at her with emotion, I felt a sense of fear.

“What if I were to stumble? If it occurs, remember that stumbling doesn’t indicate failure. It’s part of the journey.”

I smiled at her, but my eyes were stinging. Her words were profound, yet simple.

As time progressed, we redirected our attention to technical issues like character development, consistent plot development and achieving the climax that resonates with readers. On occasion, Livia would occasionally draw a simple diagram on paper, and I could only imagine how she visualized what was still an unwritten story in my mind. It was amazing.

Yet, there was something beyond the details. My understanding of myself was not limited to the writing aspect, but more so.

I shut my eyes for a few seconds, paying attention to the cafe’s noise, before opening my notebook again. Without any hesitation, I began to write a new sentence with my hand.

“See? You’ve already started,” Livia declared, her voice swaying with pride.

Upon concluding our conversation, Livia held my hand.

“Sienna, I believe in you. Your story has power. Don’t let fear defeat you.”

I swallowed and nodded.

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