When Love Break Ties

Chapter 19: Nathan's Writing Breakthrough

The faint hum of a Tokyo evening crept through the cracks in the window, blending with the distant sounds of the city's relentless pulse. Nathan sat hunched over his laptop, fingers poised over the keys, frozen in thought. His small writing desk, usually neat, was now cluttered with coffee cups, crumpled papers, and half-finished ideas that had gone nowhere. He had been staring at the same sentence for over an hour, his mind restless, searching for the words that refused to come.

The weight of the past few weeks pressed down on him like an anchor, pulling him deeper into a void he couldn't quite define. His relationship with Abby, once a source of comfort and love, had become strained—taut with unresolved arguments and unspoken resentments. Their conversations, once full of dreams and shared laughter, had devolved into tense silences and biting remarks. And his family... his family felt like a distant memory, a relic of a life he wasn't sure he wanted anymore.

Nathan ran his hand through his hair, sighing deeply. He knew he needed to finish this story—his story—but the words felt hollow. Every time he tried to write something genuine, something that came from his heart, he found himself questioning it. Was it true? Was it real? Or was it just another lie he had been telling himself all these years?

Abby's words echoed in his mind, as they so often did now. "Family isn't everything, Nathan. Sometimes, they're the ones holding you back." He had resisted at first, clinging to the values he had grown up with, the ones his parents had instilled in him. But slowly, Abby's voice had started to drown out his own. And now, here he was, questioning everything he had once believed to be true.

He glanced at his phone, its screen dark and silent. Another missed call from his mother. Another message he hadn't replied to. Guilt gnawed at him, but it was dulled now, smothered by the growing cynicism that had taken root in his heart. He couldn't shake the feeling that his family's love had come with strings attached, expectations he hadn't realized were binding him until now.

But Abby—Abby had opened his eyes. She had shown him that love could be free, untethered from obligation and duty. At least, that's what he told himself. Yet, even as he clung to this belief, he couldn't ignore the creeping doubt that Abby's view of the world, of family, was clouding his own.

The cursor on his screen blinked at him, impatient. Nathan's fingers twitched over the keys, and before he could stop himself, the words began to spill out.

The protagonist in Nathan's new story, a writer much like himself, sat at a desk not unlike his own, surrounded by the ghosts of the past. His family's voices echoed in his ears, their demands, their expectations, suffocating him. They wanted him to be someone he wasn't. They wanted him to live a life that wasn't his.

The writer's pen moved furiously across the page, fueled by a mixture of anger and grief. He wrote about the lies families tell—about love, about loyalty, about what it means to belong. He wrote about the pressure to conform, to play the role of the dutiful son, the perfect sibling, when all he wanted was to be free.

But freedom came at a cost, didn't it? The writer's hands shook as he realized that in breaking away from his family, he had lost something too. The warmth, the familiarity, the comfort of knowing that no matter how far he strayed, they would always be there, waiting for him. And yet, he couldn't go back. He couldn't undo the damage that had been done.

His protagonist, like him, was trapped between two worlds—one where love was unconditional but suffocating, and another where love was distant but free. And as the writer continued to pour his heart into the story, he realized that he didn't know which world he wanted to live in anymore.

Nathan leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen. The words had come out faster than he expected, flowing with a rawness he hadn't felt in months. His heart raced, a mix of exhilaration and fear coursing through him. It was good—at least, he thought it was good. But it was different from anything he had written before. Darker. More cynical.

He couldn't help but see Abby's influence in the words. Her view of family, of love, had seeped into his writing, transforming it into something he barely recognized. The protagonist, once a reflection of his own hopeful self, had become a reflection of his doubts, his bitterness.

Nathan glanced at the door, half-expecting Abby to walk in at any moment. She had been out for hours, meeting a friend from her social media circle, someone she hadn't seen in years. Lately, it seemed like she was finding more reasons to be away from him. Part of him was relieved—the space gave him room to breathe, to think. But another part of him missed her, missed the way they used to be before everything became so complicated.

He reread what he had written, his chest tightening with each sentence. This was his breakthrough, wasn't it? The moment he had been waiting for. The story that would define him, push him into the next stage of his career. And yet, as he stared at the screen, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had lost something along the way.

The writer in the story wasn't just a character anymore. He was Nathan. His fears, his doubts, his struggles. The family that once brought him comfort now felt like a distant memory, overshadowed by the cynical lens through which he now viewed the world.

He thought back to his childhood—long afternoons spent in his parents' house in Manila, the smell of home-cooked meals, the laughter that echoed through the halls. There had been fights, sure, moments of frustration and disappointment. But there had also been love, a love that had once seemed unshakable.

When had that changed? When had he started to see his family as a burden, as something to escape from rather than something to hold onto?

Nathan's phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't a message from his mother. It was Abby.

"Hey," her text read. "Heading back soon. Let's talk when I get home?"

His heart skipped a beat. "Talk." That word had become loaded, fraught with tension. He wasn't sure he was ready for whatever conversation awaited them.

But he knew one thing: whatever had been festering between them needed to be addressed. The distance between them, the growing cynicism that had seeped into his writing and his life—it couldn't continue like this.

He closed his laptop, the screen going dark as he shut out the world he had just created. The breakthrough was real, but it had come at a cost. His writing had changed, yes, but so had he.

Nathan stood up, stretching his arms as he walked to the window, looking out at the sprawling city below. Tokyo was a blur of lights, a sea of faces, each person caught up in their own story. And somewhere out there, Abby was making her way back to him, ready to confront whatever it was they had been avoiding for so long.

As he stood there, staring out at the city, Nathan felt a strange sense of clarity. His breakthrough had come, but it wasn't just in his writing. It was in his understanding of himself, of his relationships, of the choices he had to make.

Family, love, freedom—they were all intertwined, messy and complicated. And while he didn't have all the answers yet, he knew one thing: the story he was writing, the life he was living, wasn't finished. There was more to come. More to discover.

And as the city buzzed beneath him, Nathan felt, for the first time in a long while, that he was ready to face whatever came next.