Insert Title Here

I stared at my manuscript, smiling to myself. My fifth and final novel for my series was done, polished, edited and all those other lovely adjectives that a novelist loved to hear. As I scrolled up and down all two hundred pages, I felt a surge of happiness and satisfaction. I did it and there was nothing that anyone could do about it. As I reached the top of the first page though, part of my happiness was crushed as I stared at my nonexistent title.

Scrunching up my nose, I stared at the blank space hard and long. Nothing inspirational hit me, nor did my muse contribute to my lack of creativity. I gave a long sigh, and stood up from my leather computer chair. I stretched, my back cracking slightly. I was there for at least four hours straight, editing and putting up the last touches. Tonight, I could go to sleep happy and hopefully with a title to my book. That was when it hit me. I should have sent the fourth book to my editor earlier today.

I went ahead and saved my document once more—I was not about to lose all that hard work for nothing—and went to go find the letter I wrote yesterday. The worst thing about my apartment was that I really couldn't find anything right away. There were manuscripts everywhere, both finished and unfinished. I went first to my kitchen table, where everything usually came up. After shuffling around for a few minutes, I concluded that it was not on the kitchen table.

I then went over to the living room, hoping that I was going to find that damn paper. I didn't remember what I even wrote, which was even worse. I was usually good at rewriting those kinds of letters, but I was so into my story that I didn't even remember the first line. This was just great. As long as I didn't lose the manuscript for the fourth book, I was okay. I really didn't want to print out another two hundred page book. My mood was going down really fast. In my head, I was still running possible titles. None of them fit and if they did, I really didn't like them. If anything, I was screwed if I didn't send out my manuscript today.

It was also just a freaking annoyance that my editor just always signed his or her name as N.C., Editor. I knew that he or she was a real editor though because I checked with other authors about it.

After tossing around a few couch pillows and opening a few drawers, I gave up on the living room. My room is another good place to look. I mean, I did write it late at night and so I could have brought it to my room. Just as I turned to leave the living room, the doorbell rang and I sighed. I really didn't know who it would be and I did not have time for this. However, it rang again and I found myself heading towards the door.

I looked through the peep hole to see an unfamiliar face. I blinked. I opened the door slightly, but kept the chain in place. "Yes?" I ventured with some hesitation. I stared at him, wondering who the hell he was. He was tall, about 6 feet tall, with dark hair and light eyes. He didn't seem familiar at all. He had a small smile on his face, and it seemed to brighten when he saw me. Maybe he was a stalker. Oh god. What if he was like…a murderer? I didn't even send in my last installment for my series. Ironically enough, my series was called Stalker. That made me feel even better. Not.

"Hey, Natalie," he said, his deep voice sending chills down my spine. What the hell. I was scared, yet no instinct told me to run or lose the door or anything.

"Who are you?" I asked him, confused. I looked at him, wanting to close the door yet wanting to stay there. There was definitely something wrong with me today. Wasn't it bad enough that I didn't even get a damn title for my book?

"I'm wounded, Nat," he drawled, smiling. "You don't remember your childhood friend, Nathan Crous?" His smile turned into a smirk. It took me several seconds to register what he said. Then it took me another half second to close my door, take off the chain, open the door, and give the idiot a hug.

"Whoa, there, Nat," he said. I could tell that he was surprised. After a while though, he hugged me back. When I pulled back, I slapped him on the arm. He rubbed the spot where I hit him, and he pouted at me as if I was the one that did something wrong. Oh, don't look at me like that. It honestly wasn't my fault that I hit him. "What the hell was that for?"

"That was for leaving for five years and not even telling me where you went or why you were leaving. I've been worried sick about you, you jackass!" See. I told you that it wasn't my fault. If he didn't leave in the first place, I wouldn't have slapped him for it. If anything, he deserved more.

I would have hit him again too if he didn't look so solemn when I did tell him the reason why I hit him. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Natalie," he said quietly. Whoa. Moody much? Even the characters in my story weren't as bipolar as him. He took my hand and led me back in my apartment. He closed the door, and was about to sit on the couch when he saw that he couldn't. Like I said earlier, there were manuscripts everywhere.

"I never took you as the messy type," Nathan quipped. I rolled my eyes and promptly began to stack the papers. I cleared the couch and put all of the papers on the already overflowing coffee table. Even when I did clear it, he didn't sit. He just looked lost in thought.

"Do you want anything?" I asked, breaking the growing silence.

"No thanks," he replied. It lapsed into silence again. As it wore on, there was only one question running through my head. It pulsed in my brain, and I wanted to just scream it in his ear. With a sigh, I just opened my mouth.

"Why?" I asked, prompting him. "Why now? After all of these years? You were my best friend since third grade, and then you just leave me there in sophomore year of high school. You left me without saying good bye and without a damn clue where you went. For these past five years, I've been worried sick and…just why?" I asked desperately. Now that the initial shock of seeing him was gone, I felt a tug at my heart. I missed him, and I hated him for doing that. I was so freaking depressed when I didn't see him anymore. Yet, I knew that I could forgive him somehow.

He didn't answer right away, and while I waited, all the memories came to me in a rush of agony and sickness. The day he didn't come to school, I went over to his house to see if he was sick or something. When I neared his house, I saw that all of his mother's garden gnomes were gone, the swing set disappeared, and there were moving vans coming out of the driveway. At the very end was his father's SUV, and him in it. I didn't know what to think. As the SUV passed me, I saw his face, just barely, and I knew that he was looking at me too.

"Because…" he said quietly. He took a step towards me, and I saw that his eyes held remorse and sadness. "We left…well, I left because my mother was dying. She wanted to be buried where her parents were, so we moved back to Virginia. You have no idea how much I wanted to go back, how much I wanted to call you. The thing was, I knew if I called you, I would make sure that I went back that very same day so I tried my best just to stop thinking about you." He took a deep breath, and looked at me.

"I missed you a lot, Natalie, and I don't even know how I survived without thinking about you." He stepped closer and, and I found myself him his arms. He pulled me to his chest, hugging me tight. I returned the hug, though my mind was still lingering on his story. It didn't make the ache in my heart go away though. I was still hurt, but I was starting to feel better about it, I guess. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

His voice resounded through my head. I pulled back slightly, looking up at him. I was on the verge of tears. "Are you going to leave for Virginia again?" I asked. I knew that I shouldn't have thought about it or ask, but I had to. If he was going to leave again, I wanted fair warning about it.

"Yes," he said. "But I want you to come with me. I've got an apartment big enough for the both of us so that you wouldn't have to pay for your own. You don't even have to pay for your plane ticket—I can cover that too," he said eagerly.

Once again, that same damn question popped into my head. "Why?" I asked. I wondered if that could be the title of my book. It seemed to by my favorite word of the day anyway.

That was when a smile broke out of his face, and I was left—utterly confused. Honestly. "Why? That one is actually easy," he mused. "It's because I realized, when I saw you when you first opened the door that I couldn't just leave you again. I need you, Natalie. You've been my best friend for years, even those ones we spent apart. I just need you." He bit his bottom lip.

I gulped. He was leading up to something; I knew it. I wasn't paying attention to the fact that I was still in his arms or that we were close enough to kiss. There was anticipation inside me, butterflies going around my stomach.

"Natalie," he breathed. "I just love you, plain and simple. That's why I need you to come with me…that is, if you'll take me."

I looked at him, biting my lower lip. When I didn't answer right away, I saw that his eyes got even darker. I looked away for a moment before making up my mind. I looked back at him, and I did something I never thought I would do.

I kissed him.

I probably shocked him when I pulled his head down for a kiss. Our lips meant, and it only took him a second to react. His arms stayed secure around my waist, and my arms went around his neck. His kisses were gentle, yet eager. I knew that he wanted more. Hell, I wanted more, but I knew that I had to stop before we did something else. I pulled back, and opened my eyes in a daze.

Nathan was smiling at me lazily, his dimples showing. "So, are you coming with me?"

I nodded. "I'll try it," I replied.

"Oh, and I've got something to tell you," he said. A brighter smile appeared on his face. Somehow, I wasn't too keen on this but I suppose that I had to go through it anyway. "As your editor, I'd like to say that I was disappointed when I didn't get your manuscript. And from your letter previous letter, I know that you're having a hard time figuring out the title for your last installment. With the way your series is going, I think you should title it Insert Title Here".

"What?" I gaped. I stepped out of his arms, and smacked him again. "You idiot! Why didn't you tell me?"

He smirked, pulling me closer to him again. He placed a kiss on my head. "I'm telling you now, aren't I?"

"That's not my point," I protested weakly.

"Then what is it?" he asked me, his eyes raised.

"I love you, you idiot." I realized that it made no sese, but hey. I'm novelist, and we do't hav eto make sense.

Author's Note: Okay, here I am again. I should be studying, but hey. I can't keep away. Please review and tell me what you think. This needs to be majorly revised, I know, but I liked it all the same. There's also a note in my profile. Check it out!