"There comes a day when the story that once hurt you becomes the beacon that lights your way."
— Ailín
The city pulsed to its own rhythm.
In the middle of the crowd, Ailín stopped when she saw a giant screen flashing previews of the next big premiere:
The Story of a Life.
Her story.
Her name shone in the lights.
"Is that really me? The same person who used to be full of fears and insecurities?" she whispered, barely audible even to herself.
A trembling laugh—part astonishment, part tenderness—escaped her lips.
"Who would have imagined I'd achieve that dream, the one that felt so far away in my youth, at this point in my life?"
A wave of gratitude rose in her chest.
"Ailín… you did it. In your own way, at your own pace. And here you are."
No one around her knew it, but the story they were about to watch was the story of how she had saved herself.
This time, it wasn't just a thought—it was a fact.
She wasn't looking back in pain; she was looking back with purpose.
She resumed her walk toward the restaurant where she'd been invited for dinner. She didn't know exactly what to expect—only that the owners of the production company who had bought the rights to her story would be there.
Upon entering, she noticed most guests were accompanied by their partners. This wasn't the usual business dinner.
A young woman with a warm, affable smile approached her with enthusiasm.
"All the executives' wives wanted to meet you. They've read your book and were deeply moved by it. They were the ones who suggested this dinner."
Ailín smiled humbly. She wasn't used to receiving so much admiration, but she no longer shrank from it. She accepted every word with gratitude.
The evening was filled with laughter and shared stories. Women told her her testimony had inspired them; men admitted her storytelling had changed their perspective on female emotions.
She felt welcomed. Valued. Seen.
At one point, she slipped away to the restroom. When she returned, she paused, taking in the soft lighting, the quiet conversations, the glances of mutual understanding.
Then she noticed him.
A young executive, unaccompanied, watching her from across the room.
She smiled shyly in return, surprised by the warmth in his gaze.
He raised his glass in a discreet toast. Just a brief gesture, but enough to stir something she thought she had forgotten.
Later, the manager addressed everyone:
"We'd like you to stay in the city for the entire production. We'll provide you with a comfortable, quiet apartment, and you can advise our writers and actors. Your story is the soul of this series—and you speak our language. There's no one better to guide us."
Ailín nodded, touched. As he spoke, she felt a soft, almost imperceptible vibration deep inside—the echo of a dormant emotion.
The possibility of being seen.
Of being drawn to someone again.
It wasn't love.
It wasn't desire.
It was life.
For the rest of the night, she and the young executive exchanged only a few glances, but they were enough—a shared shyness, a silent recognition. As if they both knew something had been awakened, just a fragile thread.
The next day, two of the directors accompanied her to the set. One of them was him.
When she stepped into the recording studio, the entire crew paused for a moment, greeting her with respect. The director, producer, writers, and technical staff all welcomed her warmly.
The actress who would play her adult self embraced her tightly.
"I want to listen to you. To understand you. I need to truly know you to portray you faithfully."
Then Ailín met the young actress who would play her teenage self. She looked at the girl with tenderness—there was something painfully familiar in her eyes.
It was like looking into her own past: vulnerable, trembling.
They guided her through meticulously reconstructed scenes from her life: her old school, her first apartment, even the room where she'd had the conversation that had changed everything.
Seeing her past transformed into art was both surreal and exhilarating.
All the while, the young executive's eyes never left her.
Her heart wasn't searching for company, but she silently celebrated the fact that she could still feel.
That she could still vibrate.
That night, in the apartment they had prepared for her, she sat by the window overlooking the city lights and wrote in her diary:
"I have the ability to see my life as full of potential thanks to practising Nichiren Buddhism.
It has given me the strength to face every challenge fearlessly, because it reminds me that my life is precious.
I continue moving forward, step by step, toward a state where my happiness depends not on anything external, but on the unwavering strength I've cultivated in my heart.
Throughout my life, I fought a constant battle against self-deprecation.
I didn't believe I was good enough as a daughter, wife, mother, friend, or professional.
Yet despite having no confidence in my abilities, Nichiren Buddhism has helped me to recognise them.
When I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease, I asked myself, 'Why is my body attacking itself?'
The answer was clear: for years, I had been treating myself badly with negative thoughts.
That diagnosis wasn't the end—it was the beginning of my rebirth.
Today, I can say with total conviction: I am the heroine of my own story.
I have conquered my fears and insecurities.
I have won.
Now, I can share my story.
Nam Myoho Renge Kyo."
She closed the notebook, poured herself a cup of tea, and glanced again at the illuminated poster.
Her story—her life—was finally shining.
Not because someone else had told her to,
but because she had dared to write it herself.