The Truths Behind the Life of Maeve Sun Lively

2

I SPEND THE REST OF my afternoon typing on my laptop and looking at that photo I took of Rosalie just hours ago. It's still hard to believe that I really took that and that she looked at my camera. My camera. Rosalie Sun Lively, out of all the other paparazzis, she looked straight at my camera. Although I have been able to convince myself that it might have just been a lucky coincidence. But coincidence or not, I snapped the photo and I'll be able to pay the rent for this month. And maybe even keep my Netflix account.

A text sound on my phone and I stop writing to check it. It's from Max.

Girl, you really got yourself the work this time. Mr. Reed even said that you're bound to be the best paparazzi.

My stupid grin slips back onto my face and I can't help it. Even though I know that Mr. Reed is one to praise you very high when you've got his benefit, and then completely shame you the next when you fail him. Even though I hate being a paparazzi and would really wish my books sold well.

I text him back: You do know he doesn't really mean that right? Plus I'm never going to be the best at anything.

Three thinking dots appear but then disappear. Then it appears again and he texts: Izzy, you're 38, life isn't over yet. Whether you'll be the best paparazzi or not, you won't be anything if you keep that negative attitude up.

I reply with: 38 is old, and my birthday is in a few months soon and then I'll be 39. Even older.

I throw my phone back onto the sofa bed and return back to the article I was writing. I hear my phone ring with more text messages, probably from Max, and I ignore him.

I know that he's always been looking out for me, making sure if I have enough to eat, if I got the right photos. I appreciate it but sometimes I think it's because he pities me. Well, I'd pity myself too if I were him.

Max and I are different. He actually planned to be a paparazzi since a long time ago, and he's good at it. I never, and nor did I ever plan, that I'd be a paparazzi. Or a part time paparazzi. And I wouldn't exactly say that I'm the best at stalking into peoples' lives.

I wanted to be an author. A best-selling author of course. I was going to let the whole world know me for my books, like Stephen King famous.

I don't know what I did wrong but something went wrong. I got good grades. I got a few scholarships and went to writer's school. I even did an internship for the Los Angeles Times. What went wrong? Yeah, the first book I wrote, I got a publisher and editor and all the other stuff, it barely sold. So I tried again, and yet the second book didn't sell well either. Then came my third book I tried to write which barely made it after the publishing process. And then my fourth book was declined by all publishers and the editor I could barely afford at the time left me. And I knew I needed another job. If I was going to stay in Los Angeles, I was going to need something else to feed my mouth. That's when I came across the website of Mr. Reed, and here I am, part time paparazzi and part time writer. Except, I haven't started writing a book for about two years. The only things I've been writing are things like, "Can you believe that Kaitlin Hale Forgot to Feed her Dog?" or "Billie Eilish's Granddaughter is Moving to England?" or "Where is Summer Kale Going for Vacation This Summer?" And yeah, my life sounds like a complete disaster. Always on the rim of unable to pay rent too should be on my failure list. So you can't blame me for having such a negative attitude all the time.

I get my hands back onto the keys of my laptop. If I write this article, if it's perfect, then there actually might be a chance of success. But to what extent exactly?

And just when I'm starting to write again, my phone starts ringing. But this time it's a call.

I ignore it and continue to type despite the loud and annoying ringing of the call. I know it's Max, and he's probably trying to convince me that I'm not a failure and stuff, but I know it's not true. I am a failure. My parents, who at the time could barely pay for themselves, paid the rest of the tuition for my college and writer's school that my scholarships didn't cover. And I failed them. I failed myself.