Until I Wrote Him
Chapter 41
India's POV
The cursor blinks at me like it’s mocking me.
A cruel, tiny pulse on a sea of white, steady, unrelenting, and taunting.
I’ve been staring at this empty document for forty-three minutes, and all I’ve written is my name.
India Seethal.
Not even centered.
Not bold.
Just sitting there at the top corner like a bruise that refuses to fade.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I’m supposed to be a writer, someone who breathes meaning into blank spaces and yet, today, I can’t even assemble a sentence that doesn’t feel fake.