𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈

• 8 •

Adil. Adil with the great hair, Adil with the great clothes, and Adil with the great personality and impressive taste in everything, put sushi into his mouth. The amount of wasabi on the little clump of rice bothers me, though he kept eating as if his tongue is numb. Despite my shared love of all food that makes my mouth burn, I could never.

"I submitted a splatterpunk novel as my final project in writing elective," he continued the story of how he almost did not graduate.

My mouth fell open, "No," I groaned at the name of the most unsettling subgenre. The Bighead by Edward Lee, the first of the wide array I read, traumatized my eighteen-year-old mind. Not only did it leave a mark, but it also opened my head to the dark world that literature has to offer. Getting through that book was like an initiation.

We laughed and the second batch of the best maki in the city was served in between us. With trusty wooden sticks in hand, we dove in. I urged him to continue, "Back then I thought that the darker the idea, the more creative it is," he explained. Now that I think of it, my mind had the same belief a couple countable years ago too.

"I thought the same," I shrugged, "The sicker, the better," not.

Adil chuckled, a masculine rumble erupting from his chest. He smiled, accompanied by entertainment in his deep-set brown eyes, "When my mother found the manuscript, she kept insisting that I see a psychiatrist," he spoke some more.

For me, the feeling of owning a disturbing book weighs the same as owning an erotic novel with abs shamelessly displayed on the cover.

"I can imagine," I laughed as I remembered a similar scenario with my stepdad when he found my copy of Cabal by Clive Barker. Let's just say that I had to reassure my mother many times that I am not succumbing to a murderous phase and that I won't be killing people in the house anytime soon. Still, she hid the knives.

Despite having dealt with mystery and thriller, I never opted to write a solid horror book. The closest I have is a lovecraftian tale composed of fifteen thousand words estimated. I still have it, though it's not going anywhere other than the shit folder in my laptop. Even though I don't write horror stories, I like reading them.

I learned a lot about Adil at the diner and at the carnival, but I learned twice as much in the span of one hour we've been eating slowly in the sushi bar. It's quite refreshing to know that we have a lot more in common than either of us thought.

He also lives in an apartment alone, though one much closer to Travino's mansion. His neighbor is his girl best friend who he met in college, but no, they were not fuck partners. I think. Not that Adil would tell me.

He's thinking of buying a rabbit and I'm thinking of a hamster. He has one step-parent, I have one too. He listens to the same music I do which is like a slap of fresh air. If we knew each other back in high school, we'd be something. I wouldn't guarantee friends and I wouldn't guarantee lovers, but surely one of those two.

Adil is... sweet. I'd say that he's the exact opposite of grumpy old Keenan.

Why am I comparing?

Adil is the only choice. Even if things are happening with Keenan, I don't stand a chance. Those things are just messing around. Despite the literal and metaphorical buildup between us, I'd reason that he just hasn't gotten action in a while. Who knows? According to the man, Janella is boring.

Janella. Will I ever meet her?

I joke about dreaming to have a sexy-ass millionaire sweep me off my feet and love me till I turn into a raisin, yes, but even when I was a younger Gia, I knew that all I wanted was a simple life with a perfect man. Not perfect for the world, but perfect for me. That would mean a man who's not annoyed with me 24/7.