When Love Break Ties

Chapter 20: Newfound Cynicism

Nathan sat at his usual corner desk in the workshop, the soft tapping of fingers on keyboards filling the room. The quiet hum of writers deep in thought used to bring him a sense of comfort, a shared understanding of the creative process they were all a part of. But now, it felt distant, like an echo from a time before everything had shifted. He was still physically present, but mentally, he was far from this small workshop in Tokyo. His thoughts, sharper and more jagged than they had been before, seemed to cut through the haze of his former self.

The story he had been working on, once a reflection of his hopeful dreams of becoming a renowned writer, had taken a darker turn. The protagonist, initially a character full of aspiration and familial love, had morphed into someone cynical and bitter, a man who questioned the very foundation of his relationships. Each word Nathan typed felt like a small betrayal of the person he had once been—loyal to his family, idealistic about love, and determined to find meaning through his work. Now, that person felt like a stranger.

Abby's influence had crept into every aspect of his life. Her disdain for her own family, the constant legal disputes she was embroiled in, and her views on the toxicity of close family ties had slowly bled into Nathan's worldview. What began as a quiet questioning of his own upbringing had evolved into a full-blown detachment from the people he had once cherished. His parents' calls went unanswered, and the messages from his siblings remained unread. He couldn't bear the thought of facing their expectations, their questions about when he would return home, and their assumptions about what kind of person he should be.

Yet, even as he distanced himself from his family, Nathan couldn't deny the growing tension that lingered in his chest. A dull ache of guilt simmered beneath the surface, but it was easier to ignore it than to confront it head-on. He had changed, and it seemed that everyone around him was beginning to notice.

"Hey, Nathan, can we talk?" It was Yuki, one of his closest colleagues in the workshop. She had been one of the first people he had bonded with when he arrived in Tokyo, her quiet but encouraging presence helping him adjust to the challenges of the program. Lately, though, even their friendship had become strained.

Nathan looked up from his laptop, feeling the weight of her gaze. "Sure," he replied, though his voice lacked the warmth it once held.

Yuki pulled up a chair, sitting across from him. Her expression was serious, her eyes searching his face for something—perhaps the version of Nathan she remembered from when he first arrived. "I've been meaning to ask... Is everything okay?"

He frowned, unsure of how to answer. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've been different lately," she said carefully. "You've been more distant, less... yourself. Everyone in the workshop has noticed."

Nathan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn't sure if it was annoyance or embarrassment that was creeping up his spine, but the thought of his colleagues discussing him behind his back made him uneasy. "I'm just focused on my writing. Nothing's wrong."

Yuki's brow furrowed, clearly unconvinced. "I get that you're under pressure, we all are. But it's more than that. You used to talk about your family a lot—about how close you were with them. Now, you barely mention them. Is something going on back home?"

The question hit Nathan like a punch to the gut. His family. The topic felt heavy, almost suffocating, as if just speaking their names would pull him back into a place he wasn't ready to revisit. He clenched his jaw. "I've been rethinking some things," he admitted slowly. "About family, relationships... everything."

Yuki didn't interrupt, letting the words settle between them.

"Abby's shown me a lot," Nathan continued, the defensiveness in his tone growing. "She's made me see that maybe the way I was brought up isn't the only way. Maybe family can be a burden sometimes, a source of pressure that keeps you from being who you really are."

Yuki remained quiet, but her expression softened. "Nathan, I understand that everyone's experience with family is different, but... do you really believe that? I mean, you've always spoken so highly of your family before."

Nathan sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I don't know what I believe anymore."

It was the truth, though it felt more like a confession. His mind was clouded, filled with conflicting emotions that he hadn't fully processed. The version of himself that had once cherished family gatherings, who called his mother for advice and sought out his siblings for support, felt like a distant memory. Now, when he thought of his family, all he could see were the demands and expectations they had placed on him—the ones Abby had made him aware of.

"You've changed, Nathan," Yuki said softly. "And I'm not just saying that because of what's happening with your writing. I'm worried about you."

Nathan stared at her, taken aback by her bluntness. He hadn't expected her to be so direct. "I'm fine," he muttered, though the words felt empty even as he spoke them.

Yuki stood up, looking down at him with concern etched across her face. "I just hope you don't lose sight of who you are."

She walked away, leaving Nathan alone with his thoughts.

As the days passed, Nathan's newfound cynicism began to affect not only his relationships but also his creative output. His stories had always been deeply personal, rooted in themes of family, belonging, and identity. Now, they were darker, more detached. The characters he created no longer sought connection with others—they sought escape. The bonds that once brought them comfort were now portrayed as chains, restricting their freedom.

His fellow workshop participants had started to notice the change in his writing. There were murmurs of concern during group critiques. Some said his work lacked the emotional depth it once had, while others commented on the bitterness that seemed to seep into every page. Nathan brushed off their concerns, convinced that his writing had simply evolved, matured even. But deep down, he knew something was off.

During one particularly grueling session, their instructor, a respected author from Tokyo, had pulled him aside. "Nathan," she began, her tone gentle but firm, "your writing has taken a new direction, and while it's always good to explore different perspectives, I sense that there's something weighing you down. Writing should come from a place of truth, and I'm not sure if you're being entirely honest with yourself."

The words struck Nathan harder than he expected. He hadn't considered that his growing detachment from his family, from the person he once was, might be affecting his ability to write authentically. He had convinced himself that this new, more cynical perspective was simply a reflection of reality—a reality Abby had helped him see.

But now, standing in the workshop as his colleagues whispered behind him, Nathan felt a pang of doubt. Had he gone too far? Had Abby's bitterness toward her own family twisted his view of his own?

Later that evening, Nathan found himself sitting on the floor of his apartment, surrounded by the remnants of his life before Tokyo. Old photos, mementos, and letters from his family cluttered the space around him. His parents had sent him a care package a few months ago, filled with snacks from home and a handwritten letter from his mom. He hadn't even opened it.

Nathan stared at the package, guilt gnawing at him. He picked up the letter, his fingers trembling as he unfolded the paper. His mother's familiar handwriting greeted him, the words filled with warmth and love, asking how he was doing, reminding him to take care of himself, and expressing how proud they were of him for following his dreams.

Tears welled up in Nathan's eyes as he read the letter. How had he become so detached? How had he let Abby's views cloud his own heart? He had always known that his family wasn't perfect—no family was—but they had always been there for him, supporting him, loving him unconditionally.

As the night wore on, Nathan realized that his newfound cynicism had come at a cost. He had lost touch with the very thing that had given him strength all these years: his family. And while Abby's influence had opened his eyes to new perspectives, he couldn't let it completely erase the person he had been.

Nathan closed his laptop, setting aside his story for the night. Tomorrow, he would call his family. He wasn't sure what he would say, but he knew he had to reach out. The road back to them wouldn't be easy, but it was a journey he needed to take—before he lost himself entirely.