“I heard that you were writing stories about me. About us. Like some kind of retarded fan-fiction. Is that true?” Dorothy demanded.

“Maybe.” I answered, wondering who she’d heard it from.

“So what, do you think writing stories about me will give you a better chance? Like I’m a weak-minded little girl?”

“No, but a man has a right to dream, doesn’t he?” I said, defensively.

“It’s an embarrassment. In fact, you should be embarrassed. Shame on you. Karen told me you were manipulative, but seriously? You keep me out of your stupid dreams AND your stories- or else!”

She was so angry, she was shaking. I could see tears pooling in the corner of her eyes. Her beautiful brown eyes. Before I could do anything, Dorothy stalked off, back stiff, hands balled into fists.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. I wrote to give myself the illusion of control over my life. Now my writing may have ruined everything. As she vanished into the crowd beyond, I wondered which sacrifice would be greater- writing, or a relationship?