It’s official. I still like the novel I’m writing; she still sets my heart flying. Reading back the first four chapters after all this time is like I walked out of the room and wouldn’t look at her for a month, but now that we’re back together she’s as pretty to me as she was before. She’s better than I remembered in some places; no way I’d step away from her again. Admittedly, she has a few flaws—the month apart made me see them clearly—but I have faith they can be smoothed over. She wants me to, she told me. So I’m sticking with her. She’s mine, I’m hers, till the end and then some.
What a huge relief, huh?