Got No Shame » l.h.

13. Let Me Show You

S T E L L A

"So are you going to tell me what's going on between you and Luke, or am I not that type of older brother?"

"I don't think you want to know."

I continued to dismantle one of the parts to Luke's engine, hunched over in my shop chair to avoid Calum's questions.

"You can tell me, I know how all the girls around here call him a dreamboat. I-"

"Wow. We are not talking about this." I cut him off, finally looking up to my chuckling sibling.

Calum nudged my shoulder playfully while dragging one of the shop chairs closer to me. He swiveled the seat around, planting himself on the leather cushion with the backrest between his legs."But seriously, what's been going on? You've been really out of it."

"It's nothing, really." I drew out, unintentionally quieter with every word. "He's just a dick, that's all."

Calum shook his head as I watched the freshly frosted tips of his curls rake across his furrowed brows. "I know he's a dick, I'm also a dick. But you're still talking to me."

"Valid." I reply, releasing a much needed sigh as I placed the metal onto the table. "I just– I don't know."

I tilt my head toward the rows of ceiling lights of the autoshop, hoping that it would somehow jog my memory and hopefully some words to explain why I'm so upset at the blonde racer. To dwell on why I refuse to share my feelings, or to even think about them in the first place, never benefitted me but it's a hard habit to break. It was purely a battle of Luke's word against my own judgement.

"It's alright, Stel. You think this one out." Calum's hand planted itself gently onto my shoulder, as if he could hear my internal monologue. "Maybe you should write it out?"

I gave my sincere brother a surprised side-eye. "Yeah, no. I'm not sure about that."

Calum shrugged, swiveling slowly on his spinning chair before asking in the most hushed tone, "don't you miss it?"

"I do, but last time I wrote I–" I paused, my stomach beginning to twist.

"I know. But it wasn't your fault, Stella." Calum locked eyes with me, profusely shaking his head at the start of my sentence. "You know that it wasn't your fault. You and your writing had nothing to do with it, okay?"

My head instinctively began to nod in compliance, realizing that I unintentionally spiraled from Calum's simple suggestion. I could tell he was used to it by now, although it felt like a new rush of anxiety for me every time.

"Good good," Calum rubbed my back, taking the car part away from my reach. "I think this is a perfect time for you to take a break."

A shaky sigh left my mouth, silently agreeing with my concerned brother before my weak descent to the kitchen door.

That soul-wrenching feeling was something that I have been trying to distinguish for the last three years. When I was able to calm myself, it was hard to believe that I would even try to associate my writing with something as arbitrary as a car accident. It was delusional, really.

Apparently, trauma does not usually get the memo.

It is not like I haven't tried. From the time of my parents' funeral until this very point, I have tried to writing about four times. It would start off smoothly– it was great even –but then, the timing of my first literature exam and the accident would play vividly in my mind. Slowly, my sentiment for writing and literature was no longer freeing. It was quite the opposite.

Overall, I just found it easier to avoid writing entirely. I still had so many hobbies and other creative outlets, but I did deeply miss how it felt to write with a clear psyche.