Purpose

You spend hours circling it, run yourself out of excuses and tire your muscles in doubt. The bar is quiet, Monday night and rain, no one can find it tucked away on the side street; this suits you. Spread out at a table where he told you of the daggers he’d twisted in her heart, you vow to wash over the stories with fits of your imagination: the bar is too dark, the playlist too good to not return here simply because your heart bleeds. On the page, an adventure plays out before you: you know it like you wrote it, and you did but only literally. He says you have a lot of tricks up your sleeve, and you remember it’s true, remember you are more than your fear. How difficult it is to remember sometimes.

Your heroine twists herself inside out to survive a game without rules, she fails and grows and you watch with amazement as she comes out the other side like you thought you never could. The bar fills up with laughter, with drunken banter and a rising playlist. Nothing else matters, you scribble in a margin. There is no plan B for a reason.

This is the only thing you were ever meant to do.
This is the moment you choose to do it right.