Guys. I just sat in a work call. Staring at a PowerPoint. Nodding along like a functional adult. While losing my absolute mind over the midpoint kiss.
You know the one. The kiss that changes everything. The one that’s been simmering for chapters—loaded with tension, stolen glances, and enough longing to make a Victorian poet weep. The one that isn’t just a kiss, but a consequence. And now that it’s happened, nothing in this book is safe.
I am feral. I am unhinged. I have reached the point where I can’t have a normal conversation because my brain is stuck in the wreckage of this moment.
This is the slow-burn writer’s curse: you build tension for ages, making your characters (and your readers) suffer, and then—when the dam finally breaks—you’re the one sitting there, gasping, clutching your chest like some tragic Byronic disaster, whispering, 'Oh, my God. It actually worked.'
And now? Everything is about to implode.
I am about to implode.
The midpoint kiss isn’t just a plot beat. It’s the fulcrum of the whole damn book. Before it? They were fighting the inevitable. After it? They’re drowning in it. There is no going back. The tension has flipped, and now it’s not 'Will they? Won’t they?'—it’s 'How the hell do they survive this?'
And that’s what’s frying my brain. Because I KNOW what comes next. The aftermath. The avoidance. The denial. The absolutely unhinged emotional fallout that is so much worse than the anticipation. And I? Am losing it.
Someone tell me how I’m supposed to pretend to be normal when all I want to do is scream about these two idiots and their world-ending kiss. Because I swear to God, if I have to sit through another meeting while my brain is playing a highlight reel of devastating eye contact and shattered restraint, I’m going to start vibrating at a frequency only bats can hear.
Anyway. That’s where I’m at. How’s your day going?
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