Exposure • h.s.

CHAPTER8.

2020.
313 days later.
THE DAY  OF THE DEAL.

It's been almost a year (specifically, 313 days) since I last saw Harry Styles.
313 days since the article was published, marking a significant turning point in my career.

313 days of hard work, where despite the dedication and accomplishments, I never stopped dreaming of becoming a writer. I'm still tirelessly searching for inspiration that might allow me to write a gripping plot or, at the very least, something worth reading.

Today, as I sit in my car, stuck in the hectic morning traffic, I can't help but reflect on my journey. I finally managed to buy my own car, a small one with a unique mustard yellow color. It symbolizes my hard-earned success, and I take pride in it.

I'm on the phone with my mother, with whom I have been attempting to recently rebuild a relationship.

"So, is it today?" she curiously asks over the phone, and I hear oil crackling in a frying pan on the other end, realizing she's probably making breakfast.

"Yes, it's today... That's why I left home an hour earlier than usual. I woke up at five... it took me a while to get ready, because—"

"Well, that's good, Mabel. I'm happy for you," she interrupts. The words with which she cuts me short reveal the extent to which we haven't truly rebuilt our relationship and how little she actually cares about my life.

"And what about Elizabeth? How's my sweet girl doing?" she asks, inquiring about my roommate.

Ah, here we go...

"I saw some videos of her presenting her poetry collection yesterday. She was brilliant," she remarks, adding, "maybe you could ask her for some advice on how to secure a publishing deal for yourself, don't you think?"

Despite her degree in visual arts, Liz decided to pursue writing, maybe inspired by the sleepless nights I spent in the kitchen trying to write, or the writing workshops I dragged her to for company.

I let out a loud sigh, trying to gather some composure before I respond, restraining my urge to unleash a furious outburst. For a few seconds, I lose myself in looking at the small disco ball with a cowboy hat hanging from my car's rearview mirror.

"...for example, when I was your age, I also wanted to be a writer, but  I just wasn't lucky enough. I could only rely on literary agents, but i didn't even know how to get in contact with one. You, on the other hand, can use things like websites, emails and so on and so forth, but you'll never get anywhere if you just keep writing the same, plain, brainy stuff, because no one wants to read that. And, with your current job, I'm sure you don't have much time to read, so it's no wonder you lack inspiration. That's why you're not getting a deal, Mabel. You need discipline and to be tougher on yourself to succeed. If you put in more effort, like Liz did and like I did back in the day, you might have your chances."

She didn't have to do me like that.

"Yes, thanks mom. I have to go now.  Say hi to Dan and give Astrid a kiss for me," I say, abruptly ending the call before she finishes saying goodbye. I'm relieved to escape the sound of her voice, which feels like a grating chant, but I'm left wondering how Astrid's doing, if she has made new friends, how things are going now that she's in 7th grade. And Dan... well, I don't really care about that rich family wrecker dude, to be honest.

Lost in my thoughts, a light and cheerful melody plays in the background, perfectly capturing the vibrant atmosphere of the first days of September.

It's been 313 days since Harry gifted me that basket of apples.