Written into Love

Chapter 6: All too well

Everything was going too well.

Ling and I had fallen into a rhythm. She'd come over whenever she had time—sometimes after work, other times on weekends—and it felt so natural, like this was exactly how things were supposed to be. We'd make dinner together, binge-watch TV shows, and just exist side by side. She even brought over some of her things: a toothbrush in my bathroom, a pair of her slippers by the door. Tofu, her ridiculously lovable dog, had his own little setup in my apartment now—complete with a dog bed and a water bowl that had paw prints all over it. He fit in so seamlessly, just like Ling did.

It was perfect. A little too perfect, if I'm honest. The kind of perfect that always felt like the calm before the storm in every story I'd ever read—or, in my case, written. In the back of my mind, this gnawing fear lingered: what if this was just the high before the inevitable downfall? Because, in every story, when things are too good to be true, they usually are. And here I was, living this beautiful, magic-tinged romance, terrified it would all crumble around me.

I'd lie awake at night sometimes, with Ling softly breathing beside me, and wonder when the other shoe would drop. It wasn't that I doubted how she felt about me. She showed me every day how much she cared, in the way she smiled at me, the way she'd rest her head on my shoulder while we watched movies, or how she'd send me random texts throughout the day just to say she missed me. No, it wasn't her feelings I doubted.

It was the secret I was keeping from her.

The notebook.

I hadn't written in it since the day we met. It sat in the drawer of my desk, untouched, gathering dust like a forgotten relic of some ancient magic I was too scared to use. But it was still there, like a ticking time bomb, waiting to go off.

What if she found it? What if she knew that I'd written her—created her? What would she feel? Hurt? Betrayed? Would she think everything we had was fake? That her love for me was manufactured, not real? The thought of her looking at me with anything less than affection made my chest tighten with dread. I couldn't bear it.

Uncertainty was my biggest enemy. The more time I spent with Ling, the more perfect everything felt, the louder the voice in my head became, whispering that it was all going to fall apart if I didn't come clean. I wanted to believe that it didn't matter, that our connection was real, magic or no magic. But how could I be sure? I kept asking myself the same question: How much of what we had was genuine, and how much of it had I written into existence?

One night, we were cuddled up on my couch, Ling's head resting on my lap while Tofu snoozed at our feet. We were watching some cheesy romantic comedy she loved, and every time something ridiculous happened on screen, she'd nudge me and giggle, saying, "See? That's how you woo someone."

I smiled down at her, running my fingers through her hair, but my mind was somewhere else entirely. This was too perfect. I didn't deserve this kind of happiness. And the longer I kept the truth from her, the more it felt like I was building a house of cards that could come crashing down at any second.

Ling shifted, looking up at me with her big, curious eyes. "You okay?" she asked, her voice soft and full of concern. "You've been kind of quiet."

I blinked, trying to shake off the unease that had been building inside me for weeks. "Yeah, I'm fine," I lied, forcing a smile.

She narrowed her eyes at me, clearly not buying it. "Orm... you know you can tell me anything, right?"

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. Anything, she said. Except the one thing that could ruin everything between us.

"I know," I replied, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I just... I've had a lot on my mind lately."

Ling sat up, turning to face me, her expression serious. "Like what? Is it work? Something with your family?"

I hesitated, my heart pounding in my chest. Now. Tell her now. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but they wouldn't come out. I couldn't do it. Not yet. Not when things were still so good. The fear of losing her was too strong, and I wasn't ready to face it.

"It's nothing, really," I said, my voice sounding far too casual. "Just... life stuff, you know?"

Ling studied me for a moment, clearly not convinced, but she didn't push. Instead, she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. "Well, whenever you're ready to talk, I'm here," she said quietly.

I nodded, swallowing the guilt that was threatening to choke me. "Thanks," I murmured, pulling her closer.

That night, as I lay next to her in bed, I stared at the ceiling, my mind racing. I couldn't keep this up. Ling deserved the truth. But how could I tell her without losing her?

I tried to imagine it—sitting her down, showing her the notebook, explaining everything. I pictured the confusion on her face, the disbelief. And then I saw something worse—the hurt. The betrayal. I imagined her walking out of my apartment, leaving me and Tofu behind, and my chest clenched at the thought.

But I couldn't keep running from it. I had to figure out how to come clean. The only question was: how?

The days went by, and I kept waiting for the right moment to tell her. But every time I thought about bringing it up, the fear of what could happen paralyzed me. It wasn't just the notebook, though. It was everything that came with it. How do you tell someone that their very existence might have been orchestrated by your hand? That the life they thought was their own might have been... manipulated?

I couldn't stand the idea of Ling thinking her love for me wasn't real. And maybe that was my biggest fear—that deep down, she'd believe it was all a lie.

As more time passed, Ling and I grew closer, but the weight of the secret between us only got heavier. I knew I couldn't keep it buried forever. One way or another, the truth would come out.

The only question left was whether our relationship was strong enough to survive it.