Unravel

It’s over.

I stare at the final sentence on the screen, my fingers frozen above the keyboard as if they don’t quite believe it’s true. The cursor blinks, waiting for the next word, the next sentence, the next chapter. But there’s nothing left to say. It’s done.

My magnum opus, the series that made me a New York Times bestselling author, is finished. And all I feel now is emptiness.

I save the document, close the laptop, and lean back in my chair. The room is dark, except for the faint glow from the screen and the city lights filtering through the blinds. My study is a mess—empty coffee cups, crumpled notes, and dog-eared books scattered across the desk and floor. I’ve been living in here for weeks, maybe months; I’ve lost track. The door is closed, keeping out the rest of the world, or more specifically, keeping me in.

I should feel relief, maybe even pride. But all I feel is this gaping void, like a part of me has been hollowed out. The series was everything to me, my life’s work. Now that it’s over, I’m not sure who I am without it.

Emma used to joke that I married my books instead of her. Lately, it doesn’t feel like much of a joke. I can’t remember the last time we had a real conversation, the kind we used to have when we were younger when we were still in love. Now it’s just strained silences and polite exchanges, like we’re strangers who happen to share the same bed.

I glance at the clock. She should be home by now, but she’s probably still at work. She’s been spending more and more time at the office, especially since she started working with that new author. I don’t know much about him, just that he’s young, talented, and full of potential—the perfect protégé for my wife, the brilliant editor.

A sharp stab of jealousy twists in my gut. I push it down, ignoring the ugly thoughts that rise to the surface. I should be happy for her, proud even, but all I feel is resentment. I know it’s irrational, but I can’t help it. Watching her pour all her energy into someone else’s career while mine is circling the drain feels like a betrayal.

I need a drink. Or something stronger.

Pushing back from the desk, I stand and stretch, my muscles stiff from hours of sitting. The room spins slightly as I move, a reminder that I haven’t eaten or slept properly in days. I ignore the hunger and fatigue and make my way to the liquor cabinet in the corner. The bottles inside are my only companions these days.

I pour a generous amount of whiskey into a glass and take a long drink, feeling the burn as it goes down. It doesn’t help. The void is still there, gnawing at me from the inside out.

I need to get out of here.

Leaving the study, I make my way to the front door. I don’t bother grabbing a jacket, even though the night air is cool. I just need to get away, to escape this suffocating silence.

The city is alive, as it always is, even this late at night. The streets are busy with people heading home or out to bars and clubs. I walk aimlessly, my feet carrying me without direction. I don’t know where I’m going, and I don’t care. I just need to move, to feel something other than this crushing emptiness.

Eventually, I find myself in a part of the city I don’t recognize. The buildings here are old and run-down, the streets narrower and darker. There’s a seedy undercurrent to this place, a sense of danger lurking in the shadows. It’s exactly what I’m looking for.

I keep walking until I spot a dimly lit bar tucked between two crumbling buildings. The neon sign above the door flickers, half the letters burnt out. It looks like the kind of place where no one asks questions, where people come to disappear.

I push open the door and step inside. The air is thick with smoke and the smell of stale beer. The clientele is rough, the kind of people who’ve seen too much and care too little. Perfect.

I take a seat at the bar and order another whiskey. The bartender, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He just pours the drink and moves on to the next customer.

I take a sip, letting the alcohol numb my senses. The noise of the bar fades into the background, a dull roar that matches the emptiness inside me.

It’s then that I notice her.

She’s sitting at the other end of the bar, nursing a drink and watching the crowd with detached interest. She’s beautiful, in a way that feels both deliberate and effortless. Dark hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, her lips painted a deep red that contrasts with her pale skin. Her eyes are sharp, intelligent, and they meet mine with a knowing look that sends a shiver down my spine.

I should look away, but I can’t. There’s something about her that draws me in, something magnetic and dangerous. She smirks, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking, and I feel a flush of embarrassment. I’m not that guy, the kind who picks up women in bars. At least, I didn’t use to be.

But everything’s different now. I’m different.

Before I can decide what to do, she slips off her stool and makes her way over to me. She moves with a confidence that’s almost predatory, like a lioness stalking her prey.

“Buy me a drink?” she asks, sliding onto the stool next to me.

Her voice is low, sultry, with just a hint of danger. It sends another shiver down my spine, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

“Sure,” I manage to say, signaling the bartender.

She orders something expensive and takes a slow sip, her eyes never leaving mine. There’s an intensity in her gaze that unnerves me, but I can’t look away.

“What’s your name?” she asks, leaning in just a little too close.

“Michael,” I say, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears.

She smiles, a slow, seductive curve of her lips. “I’m Lily.”

Lily. The name suits her, delicate yet dangerous.

We make small talk for a while, but there’s an undercurrent to the conversation, something unspoken but undeniable. She’s not like the other women I’ve met in bars like this. There’s a sharpness to her, a wit that keeps me on my toes.

Before I know it, we’re leaving the bar together. I don’t remember who suggested it, but it doesn’t matter. We end up in a cheap motel a few blocks away, the kind of place where no one asks questions.

It’s not my first time with a prostitute, but something about this feels different. There’s an intimacy to it that I didn’t expect, a connection that goes beyond the physical. It’s like she sees right through me, sees the emptiness inside me, and for a brief moment, it doesn’t feel so hollow.

When it’s over, she doesn’t leave right away. Instead, she lies next to me, her head on my chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin.

“You’re not like the others,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

“Neither are you,” I reply, surprising myself with the honesty in my voice.

She laughs softly, a sound that’s both bitter and sweet. “No, I suppose I’m not.”

We lie there in silence for a while, the only sound the distant hum of traffic outside. I feel a strange sense of contentment, something I haven’t felt in a long time.

But it doesn’t last. She eventually slips out of bed, dresses, and leaves without a word. I watch her go, feeling that familiar emptiness settle back in.

I should have known better. I should have known that nothing could fill the void inside me, not drugs, not alcohol, not even a beautiful woman like Lily.

But I’m a fool, and I keep coming back.

Over the next few weeks, I find myself seeking her out more and more. She becomes my addiction, my escape from the crushing reality of my life. We meet in bars, in motels, in the back alleys of the city. It’s reckless, dangerous, and I don’t care. I need her, need the way she makes me feel alive, if only for a little while.

It starts with the drugs. Small doses at first—just enough to take the edge off, to quiet the gnawing thoughts that keep me up at night. But it doesn’t take long before I’m chasing something stronger, something that can drown out the emptiness completely.

Cocaine becomes my drug of choice, a sharp, instant high that makes everything feel vivid and alive. It’s a fleeting sensation, gone almost as quickly as it arrives, but in those moments, I feel like I’m floating above the crushing weight of my life. When the high wears off, the crash is brutal—my mind spirals into darker and darker places, and the only solution is to go again. The powder becomes my constant companion, hidden away in the drawer of my desk, always within reach.

Lily doesn’t judge. She watches me with those knowing eyes of hers, but she never says a word, never tries to stop me. If anything, she encourages it, matching me line for line, shot for shot. We spiral together, two lost souls clinging to each other as we sink deeper into the abyss.

The lines between our business arrangement and something more begin to blur. We don’t just meet in bars or motels anymore; we go out on actual dates. Dinner at fancy restaurants, walks along the waterfront, late-night drives through the city. I know it’s not real, that she’s only with me because I’m paying her, but I let myself pretend. In those moments, it feels like I’ve found something real, something that can fill the void.

I start to convince myself that I’m in love with her. It’s a ridiculous notion, but I cling to it like a lifeline. She’s the only thing that makes the emptiness bearable, the only thing that gives me a reason to get out of bed in the morning. I tell myself that she feels the same way, that there’s something between us that goes beyond the transaction.

But deep down, I know it’s a lie.

The drugs make it easier to believe the lie, to ignore the reality of my life. I’m high more often than not, floating through my days in a haze of artificial euphoria. The world outside my bubble starts to fade away—my career, my marriage, everything that used to matter to me. All that exists is Lily, and the brief moments of escape she offers me.

Emma notices, of course. She’s not blind, and she’s not stupid. The tension between us, once a dull undercurrent, becomes an open wound that we can’t ignore. The fights start small—missed dinners, late nights at the office—but they quickly escalate into something uglier.

One night, after another argument that ends with her storming out of the house, I find myself standing in front of the mirror in our bathroom, staring at the reflection of a man I barely recognize. My eyes are bloodshot, my skin pale and drawn, my hands trembling from the effects of the drugs. I look like a ghost, a shadow of the man I used to be.

I wonder how we got here, how everything fell apart so quickly. But I know the answer. It didn’t happen overnight; it was a slow, inevitable decline. The passion that once fueled my writing, that once brought us together, has been replaced by a hollow, desperate need for something I can’t even name.

The next morning, Emma serves me divorce papers. She doesn’t say much, just leaves the documents on the kitchen table and walks out the door. I don’t try to stop her. There’s nothing left to say.

I signed the papers without hesitation. There’s no point in fighting it. We’ve been over for a long time; this is just the final nail in the coffin.

After she leaves, I retreat to my study, the one place in the house that still feels like mine. I pour myself a drink, snort a line of cocaine, and wait for the numbness to settle in.

But this time, it doesn’t work. The void is still there, deeper and darker than ever. The drugs don’t fill it; they only make it worse.

I try to write, to lose myself in my work like I used to, but the words won’t come. My mind is a fog of despair and regret, and the blank page stares back at me, mocking my impotence. I can’t even remember the last time I wrote something that mattered, something that wasn’t just a hollow imitation of what I used to be.

I think about calling Lily, but I can’t bring myself to do it. The thought of seeing her, of pretending that everything’s okay when it’s not, is more than I can handle. I’m tired of pretending, tired of the lies and the delusions. I just want it all to stop.

But it doesn’t stop. The days blur together in a haze of drugs and alcohol, the void inside me growing larger with each passing day. I’m spiraling, and there’s no one left to catch me.

Then one night, I get a text from Lily. It’s simple, just an address and a time. No explanation, no preamble.

I should ignore it. I should delete it and try to get my life together. But I don’t. I grab my coat and head out the door, my hands shaking with anticipation.

The address leads me to a dingy hotel on the outskirts of the city, the kind of place where people go to disappear. I find the room and knock, my heart pounding in my chest.

Lily opens the door, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. She looks different—there’s a softness to her, a vulnerability that I’ve never seen before. She’s not wearing any makeup, her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she’s dressed in a simple T-shirt and jeans. She looks… real.

“Come in,” she says, stepping aside to let me pass.

The room is small and sparsely furnished, just a bed, a nightstand, and a chair. There’s no sign of the sharp, seductive woman I met in that bar all those weeks ago. This is someone else, someone I don’t know.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she says, closing the door behind me.

“Neither was I,” I admit, my voice shaky.

She motions for me to sit on the bed, and I do, the mattress creaking under my weight. She sits next to me, close but not touching. The silence between us is heavy, filled with things neither of us knows how to say.

“I need to tell you something,” she says after a long pause.

“What is it?” I ask, my stomach twisting with dread.

She looks down at her hands, her fingers twisting together nervously. “This… whatever this is between us, it can’t continue. I can’t do this anymore.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. “Why?”

She meets my eyes, and I see the truth in them, the pain and regret. “Because it’s destroying you, Michael. And it’s destroying me.”

I want to argue, to tell her she’s wrong, but the words won’t come. She’s right. We’ve been feeding off each other’s pain, using each other as a crutch to avoid facing our own demons. But it’s not sustainable. It was never sustainable.

“What happens now?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

She gives me a sad smile, one that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Now, you go home. You figure out who you are without me, without the drugs, without the lies. And I do the same.”

It’s not what I want to hear, but it’s what I need to hear. I nod, the weight of her words settling on my shoulders.

She leans in and kisses me, a gentle, bittersweet goodbye that lingers longer than it should. Then she stands, moves to the door, and opens it.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she says softly.

I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. I just nod and walk out the door, the sound of it closing behind me echoing in my ears.

And just like that, she’s gone.

I wander the streets for hours after that, my mind a jumble of thoughts and emotions. I don’t know what to do, where to go. All I know is that the life I’ve been living is over, and I have no idea what comes next.

When I finally return home, the house is dark and empty. Emma’s things are gone, her presence erased from our shared life. The divorce is real now, the finality of it hitting me like a ton of bricks.

The days blur together after that. I stop going out, stop looking for her. I stop drinking, though the cravings are still there, gnawing at the edges of my resolve. I spend my days in my study, staring at the blank screen, willing the words to come, but they don’t. They never do.

But the void inside me grows, a black hole that threatens to consume everything. I feel like I’m disappearing, fading into nothingness.

And then, one day, I found a way out.

It happens almost by accident. I’m browsing the internet, mindlessly clicking through articles and blogs, when I stumble across a piece about the current trends in publishing. It’s a fluff piece, nothing groundbreaking, but something about it catches my attention. I start digging deeper, reading more articles, more reports. I study the bestseller lists, analyze the genres that are currently popular, the tropes that readers can’t get enough of.

It’s a cold, calculated process, nothing like the passion that used to drive me to write. But it’s something, and that’s more than I’ve had in a long time.

I start outlining a new book, something that’s a far cry from my previous work. It’s not what I want to write, not what I’m passionate about, but it’s what the market wants. And that’s what matters, isn’t it? The market.

I throw myself into the project with a single-minded determination. The words come easier now, not because I’m inspired, but because I’ve found a formula that works. It’s mechanical, soulless, but it’s effective.

The book practically writes itself.

When it’s done, I send it off to my publisher. They’re thrilled, of course. It’s exactly what they’ve been waiting for, a sure-fire hit that’s guaranteed to sell. I should be happy, relieved even, but all I feel is emptiness. The void is still there, as deep and dark as ever.

The book is released to rave reviews and skyrockets to the top of the bestseller lists. I go through the motions, doing interviews, attending signings, pretending to care. But it’s all just a facade, a mask I wear to hide the hollow man underneath.

At the book signing, the line of fans stretches out the door, each one clutching a copy of the book I wrote but don’t really feel a connection to. I smile and sign their books, making small talk and posing for pictures. It’s exhausting, but I push through it, because what else am I supposed to do?

I smile and sign their books, making small talk and posing for pictures. It’s exhausting, but I push through it, because what else am I supposed to do?

And then she appears.

A woman, middle-aged, with kind eyes and a nervous smile, approaches the table. She’s holding my book, but there’s something in her expression that sets her apart from the others.

“Mr. Carter,” she says, her voice trembling slightly. “I just wanted to thank you. Your book… it saved my life.”

I stare at her, not sure how to respond. It’s not the first time I’ve heard something like this, but coming from her, it feels different. Genuine.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

She takes a deep breath, her eyes filling with tears. “I was going through a really dark time. I didn’t think I’d make it through. But your book… it gave me hope. It made me feel like I wasn’t alone. It reminded me that there’s still good in the world, that there’s still a reason to keep going.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. She doesn’t know, doesn’t understand. The book that saved her, that gave her hope, was born out of nothing. It was a product, a calculated attempt to give the market what it wanted, nothing more.

But to her, it was everything.

“Thank you,” I managed to say, my voice thick with emotion. “I’m glad it helped.”

She smiles, a genuine, heartfelt smile, and I feel something inside me crack. The void is still there, but for the first time in a long while, it doesn’t feel so all-consuming.

She walks away, and I’m left alone with my thoughts. The line of fans continues to move forward, but I barely notice them. I’m lost in my own head, grappling with the realization that no matter how hollow the process, the result still has the power to touch people, to change lives.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe that’s all I can hope for.

The signing ends, and I leave the bookstore, stepping out into the cool night air. The city is alive around me, buzzing with energy and life. I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the past few months slowly start to lift.

I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know if I’ll ever find the passion I once had for writing. But for now, I’m okay with that. For now, I’m content to just keep moving forward, one step at a time.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find my way back to the man I used to be.

Or maybe I’ll become someone new.

Either way, the journey starts here.

The End

Written by: J L Anderson