Chapter 2: Family Ties
Matteo’s POV
The next morning, I wake to the city’s relentless buzz, the distant sounds of traffic and voices blending into a symphony of life. I sit at my desk, a half-finished cup of coffee beside me, the remnants of last night’s writing attempt still sprawled across the page. My gaze drifts to the window, where gray clouds gather, threatening rain.
It’s the perfect backdrop for my thoughts, dark and brooding. As I attempt to type, the cursor blinks mockingly at me, urging me to create something meaningful. I think of Arcelia again, her words swirling in my mind like a storm. What would she say if she could see me sitting here, struggling to replicate the emotional depth she so effortlessly pours into her stories?
The image of her book, Crimson Vows, lingers. I reach for it, opening to a passage that always stirs something within me. The lines speak of betrayal, but there’s a beauty in the way she expresses pain. As I read, I wonder how someone could capture such raw emotions without experiencing them firsthand. Does she find comfort in the darkness she writes about?
Just then, a soft knock on my door interrupts my thoughts. It’s Luca, my youngest brother, his brown hair tousled and his expression bright with curiosity.
“Hey, Matty! You still working on that love story?” he asks, plopping down on the chair across from me.
I offer a half-smile, but the weight of my frustration lingers. “Trying to. It’s... complicated.”
Luca leans in, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You need to get out more. Maybe meet someone who isn’t fictional. You can’t write about love if you never experience it.”
His words strike a chord. There’s truth in them, a stark reminder of my tendency to hide away. “Maybe,” I reply, attempting to deflect. “But the stories are easier to control.”
“Or maybe you’re just afraid,” he counters, his tone light but serious. “You can’t hide behind your books forever, you know.”
As he speaks, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s right. The truth is, I’m scared of vulnerability. Writing about love is safe; it allows me to explore feelings without the risk of actual heartbreak. But what if Luca is right? What if I need to step outside my comfort zone to truly understand the very thing I write about?
“Fine,” I say, half-joking. “I’ll go find my muse. What do you suggest? A coffee shop?”
“Or a bookstore,” he replies, grinning. “You might just find someone who writes about hate.”
I chuckle, but as he leaves the room, I find myself pondering the idea. Maybe it’s time for a change—a chance to experience the world beyond my desk.
Arcelia’s POV
The rain continues its gentle percussion against the window, a soothing backdrop as I settle into my routine. I’ve always found solace in the sound, letting it wrap around me like a comforting blanket. It’s a good day for writing, or so I tell myself. But the words still refuse to come.
Instead, I turn to the small collection of love stories stacked neatly beside my bed. Each book is a portal to emotions I struggle to express. I pick up A Love Rewritten again, flipping through the pages until I reach the passages that resonate most. Matteo’s words dance on the page, filled with warmth and tenderness that feel so alien to me.
The irony isn’t lost on me: here I am, a writer of hatred, seeking refuge in tales of love. What does that say about me?
As I sit in silence, I can’t shake the feeling of wanting to know more about Matteo. I’m drawn to his work, but beyond that, there’s an inexplicable connection. I wonder if he ever feels the same—if he questions what drives me to write about the darkness that fills my stories.
An idea begins to form, a whisper of inspiration that pushes through the clouds of my mind. I could write him a letter, share my thoughts, ask the questions that have lingered in the air like smoke.
I retrieve a sheet of paper and pen, allowing my thoughts to flow.
Dear Matteo,
I find your words captivating, filled with emotions I can’t quite grasp. I wonder about the truths behind your stories. What drives you to explore love when it feels so distant?
The words come easily, but as I write, doubt creeps in. What if he doesn’t want to hear from someone like me? What if I’m just a shadow in his world of light?
But something within me pushes forward.
I write about hate, but I crave the understanding of love. Can you help me?
I finish the letter, staring at the ink that spills across the page. It feels like a risk, but maybe it’s one worth taking.
Taking a deep breath, I fold the letter and tuck it into the pages of A Love Rewritten, a tiny secret waiting to be unveiled.
In that moment, I feel a flicker of hope—a sense that perhaps our worlds, so vastly different, might intertwine in unexpected ways.
I know it's a short chapter.
Open for all the suggestion.
Please give your love and support to the story.
Love:)Winter
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