I stared at the blank computer screen, the blinking cursor mocking me. Daring me to write something—anything—that wasn't completely idiotic or sounding... dumbly.

I groaned as I slammed the screen down and shoved the thing back into my bag.

It was useless—I was useless, as a writer anyway.

It'd been near on three weeks since I had moved in with Tom and every day he got up and went to work, I sat down in front of my computer and... nothing.

Not a single damn paragraph in all this time, not even one bloody sentence!

I raked my fingers through my mess of curls and did my best not to scream in frustration. Instead, I inhaled deeply through my nose and forced myself out of Peter's back office and into the main shop.

At least I'm capable of stocking books, I thought crossly.

In the beginning, I thought it must be Tom's apartment—our apartment now as Tom was often eager to correct me, and I let him. But despite my mum having graciously repacked and sent my boxes and Tom having insisted on finding a satisfactory place for all my things and knickknacks, it still felt like his flat and it felt odd to be there alone without him.

So logically, I packed up my computer bag and headed to the one place I had always felt at home, Flannigan's.

Peter kindly set me up in his office, assuring me that with the influx of customers at the height of tourist season, he was too busy to sit "on this here old fanny." But when I offered to help lighten his workload and assist up front he promptly instructed me to park my fanny and write.

I settled in eagerly the first day, optimistic the nearby stacks filled with all the works of the literary greats would somehow inspire my writing, as if through some kind of osmosis.

Unsurprisingly, simple proximity did ruddy nothing to cure me of the block. Still, I came in almost daily, not having particularly anywhere else to go, and endeavored to try and write something—anything—simply just to tell Tom that I had.

A real writer wouldn't need extrinsic motivation, I chided myself as I straightened a skewed stack of hardcovers on display. A real writer wouldn't be able to stop herself from writing. She'd be drawn to it, consumed by it!

I sighed heavily.

Six months of writing had sounded like a dream, but now that reality had set in I realized six months of writer's block was going to be pure hell.

* * *

By the time I returned to the flat, the sky was painted with broad-stroked hues of pinks and lilacs. Silently, I leaned against the front door and bit my grinning lower lip as I watched Tom swinging his hips and crooning along to the radio as he dumped something from a cutting board into a pot boiling on the stove.

When I felt I couldn't fight the laughter bubbling up inside me a moment longer, I opened and closed the door again—louder this time—and called out to him.

"Honey, I'm home!"

Tom chuckled as he flicked off the music and walked out from behind the counter to greet me.

"I will never get tired of hearing that," he murmured into my hair.

"'Honey' or 'home'?" I teased him as I extricated myself from his grasp to deposit my keys in the nearby dish and drop my bag onto the couch.

"Either—both!" He grinned as he returned to the kitchen and began stirring the now boiling pot.

"I should really be doing the cooking seeing as I'm unemployed," I sighed as I plopped myself ungracefully into the nearest bar stool.

Tom practically snorted. "I love you, but you certainly did not inherit your mother's talents in the kitchen."

I couldn't argue with that. I could hardly boil an egg without supervision. "Well, then, I should clean—"

"I pay people for that, quite well I might add." He winked in my direction before turning to the cutting board and picking up a sharp looking knife.

"Well, I should do something to earn my keep."

He shrugged easily. "You do the dishes almost every night."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "Because you cook every night!"

"Not every night," he countered as he grabbed a head of lettuce from the fridge.

"Every night you're home... which," I conceded, "hasn't been so frequent as of late... How are things at the office?"

Tom shrugged again, though the muscles in his shoulder hardly seemed to move at all. "You know, the board is... the board."

I grimaced. "They still fighting you on the refugee program?"

He nodded silently.

"One would think domestic programs benefiting local communities would be just as supported as the foreign-focused programs."

Tom 'hmmed' rather noncommittally. "Domestic programs are seen as inherently more political."

"You're helping people. What's it matter where they live?" I huffed.

That earned me the briefest of grins before Tom quickly replaced it with a taught frown. "Problem is, not everyone on the board see the refugee program as domestic."

I shook my head in confusion. "But it serves people living in the UK!"

The program Tom and Cynthia had been working tirelessly on getting off the ground for the past several months focused on supporting recently arrived migrant families and refugees navigating the bureaucratic and logistical resettlement process. There was such an obvious critical need for such services—especially in London and other major cities—and yet Tom and Cynthia had to fight every step of the way just to keep the program viable as the board repeatedly voted to delay its launch.

"But they're not British," Tom explained. "Not in the eyes of the board."

"That's rubbish!"

Tom nodded before adding with a heavy sigh: "Cynthia's on it."

"Well," I said, sensing the end of the conversation. "If you don't mind I'll change before dinner. I feel like I'm covered in book dust."

Tom's head snapped up at that showing an eager grin plastered across his face. "How was it today at Flannigan's?"

"It was..." My heart sank as my conscience guiltily flashed back to the blinking cursor. "You know..."

He nodded as if he did. I felt another pang.

"Go ahead and change. I picked up a gift for you on my way home from work. It's on the bed."

The room suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.

"Another pillow-top-present? Seriously, Tom?"

He laughed at my panicked expression. "Just go on, you'll see."

Sure enough, waiting for me on my pillow sat a silver paper wrapped box.

I picked it up gingerly and hesitated before returning to the kitchen with it in hand. "Really, Tom, you're only helping my argument about earning my keep."

"Just open it," he said softly as he walked slowly toward me while wiping his hand on a tea towel.

I dropped my eyes to the neatly wrapped package and carefully broke the invisible tape. The air quickly rushed out of my lungs as the silvery paper fell away, my throat constricting painfully as my eyes suddenly swum with tears.

I could feel Tom's broad hands gingerly slide down my forearms to my elbows. "Ems?"

"My dad gave me my first journal," I finally managed in a hoarse whisper.

That one had been pink and bedazzled with glittery rhinestone gems. This one...

I ran my hand over the smooth leather cover, secured neatly by a bronze-buckled strap. It was completely pristine mahogany except for the presence of two inconspicuous letters engraved into the bottom right corner: E . H .

"Your mother said."

I nodded at his words, unable to tear my eyes away from the book. "And what else did my dear mum have to say?"

"Just that..." He cleared his throat and set his thumbs to rhythmically stroking the tender skin covering the inside of my arm. "That you didn't seem as keen to write after you dad passed."

"I wasn't keen to breathe," I whispered. I could feel the rush of tears flooding my lashes as my lips trembled with the words I was trying to form. "It's the way of the world that parents should go first—it's more tragic if it's the other way around, I know that but..."

I shrugged helplessly. "He was my best friend, my... everything."

The first treacherous tear fell then, and I forcefully wiped it away.

"I did try, to write I mean, after he died. I tried for years actually." I flinched at the sound of my laughter, which sounded tinny and hollow even to my own ears. "It was something we'd always shared, and I didn't want to let him down by quitting. I knew he'd want me to keep writing but..."

When the second tear fell, it was Tom who wiped it away though he did so gently with his lips.

"You were grieving, Ems," he murmured against my temple.

I closed my eyes, unable to bear the painful rattling of my lungs. "Sometimes it feels like I still am."

Tom was silent so long I started to think he hadn't heard me. A part of me wished he hadn't heard anything of what I said. It had been more than I'd meant to say, and it'd been more than I'd said to another living soul in the years since we buried Dad.

But he had heard me.

Eventually, he lifted his hand to tuck a wild curl behind my ear. "Maybe you are."

He made my mess of emotions all sound so simple, so... okay.

"I just..." I tilted my chin slightly so that I could peer up through my damp eyelashes to meet his gaze. "I don't know how I'm supposed to move on without him in my life."

A pensive smile spread across Tom's lips as he considered his words. "Then... don't. Carry him with you in your writing and in your life."

Slowly and then all at once the damns holding back the remaining tears, sniffling, and snot burst forth as my face crumpled into near all-encompassing sobs. I bobbed my head as Tom pulled me tightly into his chest... and I pulled my journal tightly to mine.