When Love Break Ties

Chapter 12: The Writing Struggle

Nathan sat in front of his laptop, the screen glaring back at him with its blinking cursor, taunting him. A half-finished sentence hung in the air, mocking his inability to complete it. It was as if the words were stuck somewhere between his mind and his fingers, refusing to flow. The once-inspiring workshop, which had ignited his passion for writing, now felt like a distant memory. Every word he typed seemed disconnected, hollow, lacking the depth and emotion he once poured into his stories.

He closed his laptop with a sigh, rubbing his temples in frustration. He had deadlines to meet, but his creative well had run dry. Worse, it felt as though he had lost the very essence of why he had pursued writing in the first place. The joy, the catharsis, the clarity he once found in crafting stories—now all of it seemed unreachable, overshadowed by the turmoil raging inside him.

Abby, who was sitting at the small dining table with her own laptop, glanced over at him. She had been busy editing photos for her latest social media post, but she could sense Nathan's frustration from across the room.

"Everything okay?" she asked gently, setting her phone down.

Nathan sighed again, leaning back in his chair. "No. I can't write. It's like... I don't even know how to anymore."

Abby gave him a sympathetic look. "It's just a phase, Nate. Everyone goes through creative blocks. You've got a lot on your mind, that's all."

Nathan shook his head, his chest tightening. It was more than just a creative block, and they both knew it. His struggles weren't limited to the words that refused to come. Ever since he had distanced himself from his family, he had felt adrift, like a ship without an anchor. And while Abby's presence brought him comfort, it also brought conflict—conflict he couldn't seem to resolve.

"I used to be able to escape into my writing," Nathan muttered, his voice heavy with frustration. "No matter what was going on in my life, I could always find solace in it. But now... now it just feels like a chore."

Abby stood up and walked over to him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You're dealing with a lot right now. Maybe you just need to step back for a bit. Give yourself time to process everything."

Nathan nodded, though deep down, he wasn't sure if time would fix this. He had always been able to handle pressure—whether it came from his family, his career, or life in general. But this time, it felt different. It felt as though the very foundation of his identity was slipping away.

Abby, sensing his unease, gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze before retreating back to her own work. Nathan watched her for a moment, wondering how she managed to stay so composed amidst the chaos of her own life. Abby, who had battled her own demons, seemed to thrive in the face of adversity. But for Nathan, the more he tried to hold it together, the more everything seemed to fall apart.

He turned back to his laptop, staring at the empty document once again. His thoughts drifted back to his family. The calls from Manila had become less frequent in recent days, though the messages of concern had not stopped. His mother's text from the night before still lingered in his mind, a reminder of the growing distance between them.

Mom: "We love you, Nate. Please let us know if you need anything. We're always here."

It was a simple message, yet it weighed heavily on him. His family's love had always been a source of comfort, but now, it felt like a burden. The expectations, the pressure to maintain the image of the perfect son—it all seemed too much. And Abby's influence had only intensified his internal conflict, making him question the very values he had grown up with.

He glanced at the title of his unfinished piece on the screen, the one he had started weeks ago. It was meant to be a reflection on family and belonging, a topic that had always come naturally to him. But now, the words seemed foreign, as though he no longer understood the concept of family the way he once did.

Nathan's mind wandered back to his last conversation with Abby about family, when she had opened up about her own struggles. Her bitterness toward her parents, the legal disputes that had torn her family apart—her experiences had shaped the way she viewed familial relationships. And slowly, Nathan had begun to adopt her worldview, seeing his own family in a different light.

"I don't know if I can keep doing this," Nathan whispered, more to himself than to Abby.

Abby looked up, concern etched on her face. "What do you mean?"

Nathan ran a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. "Writing about family. Writing about... anything. It's like I don't even know who I am anymore."

Abby's expression softened. She walked over to him again, sitting on the edge of the table. "Nate, you're going through a huge shift in your life. It's normal to feel lost. But that doesn't mean you've lost your identity. Maybe it's changing, evolving. And that's okay."

Nathan looked up at her, his heart heavy. "But what if I don't like who I'm becoming? What if... I'm losing the part of me that used to matter the most?"

Abby met his gaze, her eyes filled with understanding. "You're not losing yourself. You're finding yourself. And sometimes, that process is messy and painful. But it's part of growing."

Nathan wanted to believe her, but the doubts gnawed at him. His writing had always been a reflection of his inner world, a way for him to make sense of his thoughts and emotions. But now, it felt like his inner world was in chaos, and his writing was suffering as a result.

Days turned into weeks, and Nathan's struggle with his writing continued. He attended the workshop sessions, but his engagement was half-hearted at best. His peers noticed the shift in him, though they didn't say much. There were polite nods and forced smiles, but Nathan could feel the unspoken judgment in the air. He had once been the standout, the writer with promise, but now, he felt like a shadow of his former self.

One evening, after another fruitless attempt at writing, Nathan found himself wandering the streets of Tokyo. The bustling city around him seemed alive with energy, but he felt detached from it all, like a ghost moving through the crowd. The neon lights, the chatter of strangers, the hum of the city—none of it penetrated the fog that clouded his mind.

He stopped at a small park, sitting on a bench beneath the glow of a streetlamp. The air was cool, and the distant sounds of the city faded into the background as Nathan stared up at the night sky. His thoughts drifted back to his family once more. He missed them—more than he cared to admit. But the idea of reconciling with them felt impossible. How could he explain the changes he was going through? How could he make them understand that he was no longer the same person they had known?

As he sat there, lost in thought, Nathan realized that his isolation had grown deeper than he had imagined. Not only had he distanced himself from his family, but he had also distanced himself from the very thing that had always grounded him—his writing.

The following morning, Nathan sat at his desk once again, determined to break through the block that had been plaguing him. He opened his laptop, staring at the blank screen, willing the words to come. But instead of forcing himself to write about family, he decided to write about something else—something raw and unfiltered.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he began typing. The words came slowly at first, but then they started to flow, like a dam breaking open. He wrote about isolation, about the feeling of being adrift in a foreign land, about the internal battles that waged within him. He wrote about love and loss, about the fear of losing oneself in the process of change.

For the first time in weeks, Nathan felt a sense of relief as the words poured out of him. It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't polished, but it was honest. And for now, that was enough.

As he finished typing, Nathan leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen. The writing struggle was far from over, but in that moment, he had found a small piece of himself again. A piece that reminded him that, no matter how much his identity shifted, writing would always be his way of making sense of the world—his way of finding his way back to himself.