Letters to Elle

17 | The Truth in All These Lies

Yes, I finished NaNoWriMo. Yes, I love you all. Yes, this story will most likely be finish by the end of November. And yes, that means Model Tracks will be my main story in December. 

Oh, yes, and no, I really don't know how to write about a character that's scared. I need to look into that. All my characters are so lax when they should be fucking running for the hills. I'm just reminding you that this is a rough draft so erratic characters should be fine xD pLUS WRITING 50,000 WORDS IN A MONTH REALLY SCREWS WITH ONE'S MENTALITY AND I'M JUST NOT REALLY READY TO TALK ABOUT IT YET OK? OK. 

love you guys. please vote and comment. <3 i'd really appreciate it since i finished nanowrimo and all ;)

ps i really hate my writing right now and i honestly don't know what to do with myself. i think i'm going to go and edit three months or some shit and start refining my writing and make myself feel like my shit is even worth reading. so yeah. my writing is just so. damn. messy. 

                        SEVENTEEN

                        THE TRUTH IN ALL THESE LIES

                                    ♡♡♡

Life can sort of suck. I am so unsure of meeting Jeremy that it’s not even funny anymore. What if he stands me up? After everyting that has gone down between us, I wouldn’t doubt that he’d go through all that trouble—damn, he even had to say I miss you—to get me to meet up with him, and then ditch me at the last minute without even a text to tell me to not wait up.

            First off, it’s cold as fuck out here. After 23 days of December already in the works, the snow is a bitch, and the frigid wind that threatens to turn my skin blue and all icicle like isn’t my best friend. Hell, it’s my worst nightmare, to be frank.

            I really hate cold weather.

            And Jeremy knows this. So I wouldn’t put it past him to leave me in the freezing cold to rot—or freeze, I suppose—all by my lonesome without even a text or a call.

            I guess Jeremy could also come but just act cold (no pun intended) toward me and not give me any of the answers I wanted in the first place. He could always so that, and I hope that he doesn’t, because I just might have to kick his ass if he did. Or at least I’d try to kick his ass.

            Yeah, a girl who’s 5’5” really doesn’t stand a chance against a guy who’s 6’3” unless this girl is in the mafia, which I’m not.

            “Waverly.”

            Jeremy, who usually walks in such a manner that his overconfidence can be mistaken for arrogance, walks toward me in a way that screams insecure little nerd boy that gets beat up after school every day because he doesn’t know how to hold his own in a fight. It’s almost embarrassing—for him—because the way that he’s walking just doesn’t match up with the way that he’s built. His broad shoulders and defined yet large jaw contradict his gait of loneliness. He walks as if he’s lost in a world of druggies and thugs.

            “You’re different,” I say, trying to be the one to break the ice first.

            His deep, green eyes look up to reach mine, and I wish that I could say that something passed between us in that moment, but I’d be lying. Nothing passed between us, nothing at all. “So?”

            I shrug, brushing off his cold undertone. I knew that he was going to be rigid, I just knew it. “Your swagger has changed.”