It hit me like a slap in the face; sharp, unexpected, and impossible to ignore.
We were sitting in a cosy café, mid-catch-up, the kind of conversation that drifts between life updates and casual jokes, when my friend leaned back, sipped his coffee, and said with zero hesitation, “I’ve started writing a book.”
At first, I smiled. I congratulated him.
I even meant it…
…for about five seconds.
But then something shifted. My chest tightened. I could feel myself hiding my contempt under my smile, nodding while my stomach churned with something that felt suspiciously like offence.
This feeling wasn’t because I didn’t want him to write the book. I’m not above any of my loved ones entering my domain, so to speak.
But it was because of how he said it, like it was no big deal, like writing a book was something you could decide to do on a Tuesday afternoon, somewhere between gym class and heating leftovers for dinner.
I know it might sound petty. Scratch that. I know it sounds petty.
