The minute she handed her manuscript to her publisher, her life; as far as she knew it, had changed, for better or worse? She hadn't known.
Nodding nervously at her publisher as he asked her if she was sure about what she was doing, even though she had never been so un-sure in her life, but at the same time too afraid to turn back so not to be branded a coward by those who knew her.
Her nights were spent patiently waiting for that knock on the door, or the phone to ring, watching the clock as the minutes ticked passed, and before she knew it, she'd have woken up to a new morning of questioning herself over whether or not she'd made the right decision, feeling that her life was now tumbling for worse.
So now, sat once again on the couch, tears threatening to fall with her small kitten on her lap offering what little comfort it had. She held it as one would a porcelain doll, hoping that it would not break, much like her heart.
Her eyes floated over to the door, through the fogged lenses of her purple framed glasses, the same one's she worn as a child, wanting so desperately for that knock on the door and jumping in surprise when there was one, scaring the poor kitten away into the darkness of the bedroom.
Teary eyed, she opened the door, gasping for breath as she stared into the eyes of the man in front of her, a brand new copy of her first book held tightly in his grasp. Her heart beating so hard and fast in her chest she was sure he could hear it.
"Simo-mph!" her words, his name, being cut off as his lips crashed down on hers.
She stumbled back at the shear force of it, her arms wrapping around his neck, the book falling to the ground with a gentle thud, the front door silent as it closed.
He lifted her up in his arms as they securely rested around her waist, her legs, crossed at the ankles around his middle, the balls of her feet pressing into the arch of his back. He carried her to the bedroom, and laid her on the bed; the kitten jumping from its place on the mattress and landing on the floor, and with a little kick to the bum, removed itself from the room, turning around suddenly to find the door closed behind it.
The small animal wandered over to the front door, its attention now drawn to the book, its cover open on the first page where, in a neat print, read;
'I, Jeanette Miller, am dedicating this, my very first book, to Simon Seville, to whom my heart will always belong.'
This decision, she would come to realise in later years, was the best one she had ever made.
FIN.