The Untethered Minis Presents

Untethered: Lucas "CJ" Hart

A damp towel hangs quietly on a bedroom door, capturing the subtle tension of a lived-in space.

Lucas: Just a Man and His Dream

Alright, so let me just say—this wasn’t supposed to be a story about a book. Not really. It was supposed to be a quiet night, a half-written sentence, and me lying to myself for the fourth day in a row about how close I was to finishing something I barely started.

I was on the floor, back against the couch, laptop in my lap, pretending to write but mostly just scrolling. Music looping in the background, some moody playlist I didn’t even remember queuing up.

Then Landon came out of the bedroom—fresh from her shower, towel wrapped, her hair still wet.

“You still not done?” she asked.

I didn’t even look at her. “Not yet.”

“You know you said that three nights ago, right?”

She didn’t wait for a response—just tossed her words over her shoulder like they didn’t carry weight. But they always did.

That’s what she do. If she thinks it, she says it. No sugar. Just straight to the point with a side of "you better think twice."

We had a good setup tho, I won’t lie. Small rental just outside the city. Hardwood floors that talked back when you walked too fast. Houseplants we somehow kept alive. L ran her beauty shop like a boss—booked months out. And me? I was somewhere between part-time art gigs, freelance teaching, and this stubborn little manuscript that wouldn’t stop whispering to me in the middle of the night.

The writing wasn’t supposed to be anything big. I just needed to get the story out. But the more I leaned in, the louder it got. Like it wasn’t just a story. Like it was trying to tell me something about myself or something.

My girl El, Elenore Vance said “You should send it to me.” We went to Columbia together. She was always sharp—back then and now. She edits books in L.A. like she always said she would.

“You know I'm not really a writer,” I told her. “I’m not a tight prose guy. I ramble.”

“Then ramble well,” she said. “You’ve got something, Lucas. You’ve always had something.”

But, I didn’t send it. Couldn’t. Not with L hinting that I was trading in our whole life for a dream and a coastline.

But I was already halfway gone. Truth be told, I think I’d been halfway gone for months.

That night, I opened a new doc for the last chapter in, The Paris Letters. Again.

Didn’t finish it. Didn’t even write a sentence.

But something in me had already shifted.