A/N: If you stop reading or get bored at any point in the chapter/story, I'd love to know. Just a simple, 'Hey, this is where I stopped,' would do if nothing else so I can fix them before publishing next year. TYSM for your help. ❤❤

As the afternoon dragged on, their brainstorming session turned into a therapy session. One he hadn't asked for, but needed. Instead of coming up with ideas for his next novel, the discussion veered into 'why did I let Ma find me a flatmate?'and why that very 'flatmate' was currently sitting outside in his lounge room, reading one of his bestsellers, without knowing he wrote it.

After an hour of him trying to unpack why he felt he had no choice in the flatmate matter, Terry sat in silence for so long, Shashank worried he finally broke her.

"It's has to be because our mothers are friends, right?" He stretched his legs and grabbed the empty coffeepot, trying to ignore the nausea swirling in his belly. The puppy-dog look his best-friend-turned-agent was throwing him off. Like he was a puppy she had to put down.

"I mean—I couldn't just let them toss her out on the streets like that." He hugged the pot to his chest. "What? Say something!"

"I was just thinking..." Terry stirred in her seat, coming back to life. "It's such a fantastic premise."

"For what?"

"Your next story." She scoffed, pointing at the door and then him. "It's brilliant. A young woman, in a sticky situation, having to decide between figuring out where to sleep that night or move in with a heartbroken recluse she mightn't entirely get along with? Then going on to be the one who breathe life back into him, saving both him and his career, which is in turmoil. I'd tell you to write it if it wasn't—"

"You think my career's in turmoil?" Fear gripped him. He didn't need anything else going pear-shaped in life right now. First it was Setal, suddenly breaking things off with him; his sister's continual parade of merry men as if dating was as simple as picking them out of a never-ending mystic carousel; and his mother was now playing matchmaker in the most obvious and embarrassing way. He could see it already, how she would blame him if Jun ever got hurt, and it wouldn't even have to be him doing the hurting. And topping it off? He couldn't write worth a damn.

His latest royalty check had been less than he'd like, especially after forking out on swanky new furniture he wouldn't have bought if Ma meddled.

So yeah, the word 'turmoil' out of Terry was the last thing he needed.

"You don't think they'll extend?" he fished.

"I already asked... implied extraneous circumstances and whatnot." Terry chewed on her cheek. "I figured with you this bent out of shape, it was safer to assume you would not make the original deadline."

"And?" He held his breath. "What did she say?"

"You've got an additional couple of months before she'll have to push back the release date back. In which case, it will be another year before release."

"An additional couple of months?" Shashank stared at the ceiling, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. It wasn't a huge extension, but it would let him breathe.

"Yeah. Gotta turn it in before December holidays at the latest."

"We could work with that." He peered at his friend. "Can't we?"

Terry shrugged. "Depends. Can you shove Setal to the dusty fringes of your mind for a bit and write another love story?"

He pulled in a steady breath. "I can try."

"Time to stop 'trying' and do, Shashi." Terry levelled him with a look. "It's just another love story, babe. Just another story."

"Yeah." He nodded. "Just another love story..." Something I suck at in real life, apparently. "Want some coffee? I'm gonna get us more coffee..."

When he returned from the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee in hand, his mind was swirling on 'just another love story' and where Jun was as she was no longer in the lounge room—

Terry jumped at him. "Could you use it?"

He nearly screamed. "Use what?"

"This thing you're in the middle of." Her chin jutted towards the closed door. "It's a modern-day fairy tale. She's the damsel in need of saving. And you? You're her goofy, but cute, cinnamon roll knight."

"I'm not a cinnamon roll, thank you." He frowned at the implication. "And she's not the damsel. I didn't rescue her from a tower and monsters, whatever..." He stared at Terry. "As for the damsel, it's clear I'm it. Don't you? Since you're here trying to rescue my useless-ass?"

"Turn a trope on its head. Yes, that could work."

"Terry, do you hear what you're saying?" Shashank blinked in disbelief, feeling her forehead with the back of his hand. "For a woman usually full of brilliant ideas and notes for me, you're having an off-day, aren't you?"

"Yeah. You're not hearing me." She swatted his hand away.

"Yes. I hear you. And I hear a lawsuit."

"Not if you do it right. Every author takes from their life, or someone else's." She grabbed his arm, almost knocking the pot out of his hand. "My gut's telling me this can be your next big book... if you do it right. Think about it. You, the handsome, heartbroken romance writer. The love interest: a young flatmate who circumstances are dire and he swoops in, offering a room—because rent money—and as usual of romances, they grow closer. How? That's your business. You're the writer. Come up with something."

"First, she was never homeless. And I never swooped... Ma—"

"—I know. I know. Your mum orchestrated the whole thing, like a typical Nepali mother. Maybe make her character someone who's flat fell through... or at least make her someone who desperately needs help. Or him. Swap the characters. And your character can swoop in—which you didn't do—out of the goodness of his heart and not because he likes her, like you..."

I do not like her... He wanted to jump in.

"Voila. They end up falling in love. Despite him trying to be this nice guy who promises never to make a move on her. Imagine the angst, the sexual tension between them. He wants her but can't have her because of his stupid oath—"

"I did not make an oath." Shashank frowned, placing the pot of coffee he still held on the desk. "And I never said I liked her..."

"Po-ta-to, po-tah-to. Come on, Shashi. Use this unusual circumstance to cook up something. You couldn't come up with something like this even if you brainstormed for weeks. Think of your deadline. October, if you can make it. If not, Christmas. And your fans will love it. I swear. Just turn it."

"Terry." Shashank knitted his brows. "You've always told me, from day dot, never write anything personal."

"I'm not saying write a memoir!" She rolled her eyes. "I'm saying, let this"—she eyed the door—"inspire you.

"Right. I'm off, but keep me posted. I want to hear what you come up with ASAP." She patted him on his arm, then grabbed her handbag, and headed for the door.

"That's it? You're going?" He followed her out of the room, into the lounge room where Jun no longer sat.

Did she hear us and run away?

Alarm trilled in his head, remembering her words: I'm not that kind of girl.

Neither am I. That's what he's said. Neither am I...

"There's a story there, Shashank. Nurture it, or"—Terry glanced at the mug Jun left behind on the table with a mischievous grin—"let it happen... You're both adults."

"She's not that kind of girl," he hissed.

"Or maybe she is, for the right guy." Terry winked. "And I'd start with not hiding from her anymore... Good luck."

But Shashank saw what Terry couldn't. He was a sheep in lion's clothing. He was an imposter.

I couldn't even keep one relationship going. What gives me the right to write about other people falling in love?

Yet the possibility of something new burbled under his skin as he closed the door behind Terry. It made his fingers twitch to hammer out words, words he could delete once he came to his senses. But for now, was there any harm in foraging for 'inspiration' in his current situation?

Jun's humming filtered through the floorboards in the silent house and Shashank felt an odd pull.

There's a story there...

He grabbed his laptop from his office and sat himself at the kitchen counter in the warm afternoon sunlight. It wasn't the most comfortable place to work, but he could see her coming a mile away. And for what he was foolishly about to do, he needed to see her coming a mile away, or even two.

His heart hammered away like a skittering mouse on a wheel. Fearful of being caught.

His gut and head screamed, 'Don't do it, Shashank! Don't do it.'

It's just an exercise... just an exercise... see if I can even write without wanting to throw up...

He opened a new document, definitely wanting to throw up.

Then he ignored the blinking cursor that had made his life hell for the past eight months and poised his fingers on the keyboard. It was an odd yet familiar feeling, that need to tell a new story.

And it didn't help that there was a small, foolish voice deep inside encouraging him. 'That's right. Shashi. It's just another love story. Just a story.'

"Just a story." His breath staggered out of his lungs as he began typing—before he lost the nerve.

#

Thank you for reading JUST ANOTHER LOVE STORY. Don't forget to comment, react, vote, or follow me to see where this story ends up in 2025! 🖤