A Natural Disaster

03 game

WHEN I GET HOME, my hands are shaking. To occupy them, I grab my laptop and sit down at my desk, determined to distract myself. With a deep breath, I open my laptop. The soft glow of the screen illuminates my room, casting a dim light on the darkness around me.

And then I start writing.

The words spill out in a flurry, as if my fingertips are trying to catch up with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. The clatter of keys fills the room. It’s a cathartic rush, and everything else seems to fade away. It’s just me, the keyboard, and the screen.

But even in my adrenalin induced haze, I can’t seem to forget about that bookshop kiss. The adrenaline from the encounter with Logan still courses through my veins, refusing to settle. Each time I recall the taste of his lips, the electric touch of his hand on my cheek, a mixture of longing and anger floods my veins.

It’s pure frustration — like knowing the melody of a song but not knowing the lyrics. None of the other kisses I’ve had in my life scratch up to that one.

And the more I think about it, the more flustered I get. The angrier I get. How dare he? How dare he act as if nothing happened? How could he walk out of that bookshop so nonchalantly when it feels like my world’s been turned inside out?

And to add insult to injury, he still didn’t give up that damn textbook.

Finally, drained both mentally and physically, I close my laptop and set it aside. Exhaustion settles over me like a heavy blanket as I crawl into bed. My mind is still ablaze I sink as back into the pillows, and I try to get some sleep.

***

I JOLT AWAKE as my alarm rudely interrupts my sleep. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks—it’s the first day of the new semester. Fantastic. Rubbing at my eyes, I sit in bed and wallow miserably about having to wake up so early.

My gaze lands on my laptop, perched haphazardly on the empty side of my bed, and a rush of memories flood back. The kiss. Logan. Heat floods my cheeks.

I reach for my laptop, my fingers hovering over the keys. As I open the document, my eyes widen in disbelief, a gasp escaping my lips.

“Oh my God,” I murmur.

I wrote five thousand words last night.

Five. Thousand. Words.

A surge of elation washes over me. For any other writer, it might not be impressive, but I’d been struggling to write more than a few hundred words for months now.

I begin to read through the words, and to my surprise, they aren’t half bad. The sentences flow, the ideas resonate, and the story takes shape in a way that surprises even me. I can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment wash over me.

As I immerse myself in the words on the screen, a realization dawns upon me—I’m going to be late for class. Panic bubbles up within me. I hastily save my work and promise myself I’ll come back to it later.

I shower and change into a pair of jeans and a cute maroon blouse then make my way downstairs, where the aroma of coffee and the sound of my dad’s familiar voice greet me.

Dad gives me with a warm smile as I enter the kitchen. “Morning, Rhia.”

“Morning.”

My dad was a doctor. Today was the day he volunteered.

I make a quick breakfast, toasting a slice of bread and slathering it with butter. My mother gives me a blank stare from the stove, where she’s toasting parathas.