Chapter 42

Tessa’s POV

There was a tightness in my throat as I looked up at Jospeh who had just finished cleaning the last of the dishes. I could feel my heart pounding against my ribcage as I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat.

He read my blog?

How much of my blog has he read?

The only person I knew who read my blog was Ruby. I had a few other followers as well, but they were only random people that I didn’t know. I hadn’t even checked the names of my recent followers.

Was Joseph one of them?

“You’ve read my blog?” I found myself asking again, my voice sounding distant.

He finished drying his hands and he nodded.

“How did you even find it?” I asked, feeling the heat rising into my features.

“I looked you up. It wasn’t hard to find.”

“Why did you look me up?”

“I was curious about you,” he said as he walked around me and toward the living room.

I went with him, following closely behind him.

It was the same living room that we sat in with the other students during his student dinner party. The same night Morgan had died. My chest ached at the memory as I stared at the spot Morgan had sat in, which was right next to mine.

Joseph sat in his usual chair and waited for me to take a seat as well.

“I wanted to know more about you and your ancestry because of how attractive your blood is,” Joseph admitted, meeting my eyes. “I stumbled upon your blog in the process.”

“You were researching my ancestry too?” I gasped, narrowing my eyes at him.

I understood that he was curious about me, but I feel like that’s something he should have told me about sooner so I could have been a part of that. Something about him researching about me and my family gave me an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“I didn’t really see much,” he explained. “Just a few photos of you as a child. One of which you were at your mother’s grave.”

His words were like a slap in the face. It’s been a while since I’ve visited my mother’s grave.

He already knew that my mother died before I could remember her so there really wasn’t much more to discuss on the topic.

“What did you think about my blog?” I found myself asking.

“It was interesting,” he said longingly like he was really thinking about the answer to that question.

I somehow felt relieved.

Though I rejected Brian’s help, deep down I knew I needed some confirmative thoughts to build up my confidence again.

It hurt me every time I heard words like “meaningless”, “give up”, “talentless” and so on.

However, I quickly found myself blushing and at that moment, I wanted to hide. I couldn’t believe he found my blog.

Joseph Evergreen found my blog.

This was humiliating.

I wouldn’t even let Brian read my blog. Not that he asked or cared enough to do so. I had mentioned my blog to Brian once and he said the same thing he always said.

“You shouldn’t be wasting your time with shit like that.”

I never told him the domain I was using for my blog because I didn’t want him to find it and give me more criticism.

“It’s interesting because there doesn’t seem to be a specific niche or even a theme that your blog has. It’s like you write whatever comes to mind and post it.”

“That is what I’m doing,” I answered, peering over at him.

His brows knitted together as he poured his incredible eyes into me.

“I thought you wanted to be a fantasy writer.”

“I do,” I said quickly. “But I like to write other things too. Sometimes I like to write real-life stuff. I guess the blog is kind of like my diary in a way.”

“I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy it. It’s just interesting. I can see how it can be confusing for your audience.”

“Confusing?” I asked, raising my brows. “You think my blog is confusing?”

“At times yes,” he admitted. “But I enjoy your writing style. If you are serious about being a fantasy writer, you should build your fanbase with that niche. Or at least pick a niche that fits better for your blog to not confuse your readers.”

“You think I should change my blog to only fantasy writing?”

“It’s your blog so you can do whatever you want with it,” he shrugged. “It’s just advice on what I would personally do. With that being said, I enjoy your poetry. You should definitely keep that on your blog if you were to change it.”

I felt heat flooding to my cheeks again and I had to look away from him. I looked down at my hands, tugging at my fingers, trying to fight the small smile that desperately wanted to appear on my lips.

He liked my poetry.

“I’m not much of a poet,” I confessed. “But it helps to get things off my chest.”

“I’ve written some poetry as well. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

I rose my gaze to his, surprised.

I never read any poetry from Joseph Evergreen or Christopher Moore. I wondered what kind of poetry he had written.

Was it fantasy stuff? Or maybe it was more serious?

I have to admit, I was curious.

“I didn’t know you’ve written poetry. Any published work?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“No. I do it for fun usually. Poetry to me is personal. Not something I would show many people.”

I felt a jab of disappointment in his words, but I wasn’t going to press it any further. I was about to tell him I understood and won’t ask to see them, however, he stood to his feet and made his way towards his study.

“I’ll return in a moment.”

I frowned, staring after him as he disappeared through the door. He was only gone for a few minutes and when he returned, he was holding what looked like a journal.

“This is where I record my poems,” he explained, handing me the book.

I stared at the dark brown, average-looking journal, hesitant to take it from him. But he held it out to me with certainty in his eyes.

“Are you sure?” I found myself asking.

“I wouldn’t be offering if I wasn’t sure.”

I took the book from him and flipped open a few pages. He had incredible handwriting that looked like it belonged to the 1800s. I was surprised that his handwriting didn’t upgrade as the centuries went on.

One of his poems caught my eye. It was titled: Nothing Left

I’ve grown a fear of intimacy.

allowing you to get so close that your fires burn the very flesh that bound me together.

Breaking down the walls I’ve built to protect my core.

My heart resides in the shambles of the broken pieces left behind.

Parts of me left a shadow of what once was whole.

Bits and pieces fell in the path behind me.

Being stolen by ignoble beholders.

Until there’s nothing left.

His poem was so moving that it caused my heart to ache. I looked over at him and saw that he was staring out the window across the room. It was dark out, so the shades were open and the reflection from the moonlight made its way into the living room, giving the usual hazy room a strange tint.

I could tell this poem came directly from his heart and it made me sad that he was feeling this way. The date of this poem was from a few weeks ago, so this was a recent feeling.

I flipped through more pages, only skimming some of the poems until I came across a poem that was dated for today. He must have written it this morning.

It was called: Phoenix.

She’s become intimate with loneliness.

So much so that the most trivial rupture sends her into a turmoil of discomfort.

Locked away where the world can’t find her.

Silenced and afraid.

Masked behind a smile.

But there’s a fire that burns deep within.

A fire like no other.

A voice so soft.

So calm.

So new.

Rises right above her.

Lifting through the embers.

A phoenix.

I frowned at the poem and when I read it repeatedly to myself, I could help but ask myself, who was the “She” in this poem?

Could this poem be about me?