"Alright, life story. Go." Michael said from across the table, slurping a bite of noodles into his mouth.
I sat back in my seat and sighed, shaking my head. "Really?"
"Yes, really! I've waited all this time and told you everything, and I will hear your life story whether you like it or not!" he retorted, landing his fist on the table.
We had been sitting at dinner for a pretty long time. The restaurant down here was actually pretty good, good enough to help me forget about the fact that a ghost made it. After a few casual discussions and more conversations about the hotel, I had more than enough information worthy enough for my article. I guess the least I could do for Michael at this point was tell him a little about myself.
"Well what do you want to know?" I asked. "I don't know where to start."
Michael glanced up at the ceiling and furrowed his eyebrows. "Uh... where do you start... oh! I know!"
He bounced up and down in his chair, clapping his hands. It amazed me how someone who had the ability to be so horrifying act to cute. "When did you first get into writing?" he asked.
I placed my fork down and sat up straight, surprised by his question. "Wait...really?"
"Yeah...?" Michael nodded, tilting his head to the side.
Nobody's ever asked me that before. My parents didn't really care to when I told them I wanted to be a journalist when I grow up, they just agreed to it and helped me pay for college. Not even Mrs. Stadwell or my other classmates have wanted to know. I've been waiting for somebody to ask me this because I just love to talk about it. I was surprised Michael even cared.
"Oh. Well," I began. "I think it was in eighth grade when my english teacher made me stay after class one day. I thought I was in trouble or something but really she just wanted to tell me that my short story assignment was one of the best she's seen. As you can imagine, that fueled my ego even more than before."
Michael let out a laugh and tilted his half-dranken bottle of beer to his lips. "Go on," he said.
"So I was like - oh, cool, thanks - and then left. The next day she told me I should enter in this writing contest that was going on around the neighborhood. The winner would get their story featured in the newspaper or something like that. So I entered because I kind of liked it, and guess what?"
Michael seemed to have forgotten about the plate of delicious food in front of him. He was sitting back in his seat with his head in his hand, staring back at me like he was fully invested with my story already. "You won?" he grinned.
I nodded. "It wasn't even that good," I said humbly, my mouth full of lukewarm spaghetti.
"Well yeah, you were like, fourteen," Michael chuckled. "And then what?"
"I don't know, I just...I just kept writing," I explained. "When I was in high school I joined the school newspaper because I wanted to see if I got the same thrill writing about current events as I did when writing fiction."
"Did you?"
"Mhm. A different kind of thrill, though. Whenever I wrote fiction I was letting my imagine run free, which was an amazing feeling. But when I started covering current events I felt something else," I smiled, thinking back on the memory. "I loved running around the school like it was the real deal, like I was a real news-writer. I was always interviewing another student, a teacher, a janitor...anybody. I've realized that, no matter what I'm writing about, as long as I'm writing, I'm at peace."
Michael lifted his eyebrows and blinked. "Wow," he said. "That's awesome. You might've just made me like journalists again."
"You don't like us?" I smirked, crossing my arms over my chest.
