The email came two days after the magazine released.
Not from someone I knew.
This one was from the editor.
Hi "A",
We loved your piece. A lot of people connected with it.
Would you be open to doing a featured segment for the next issue? Either with more sketches, or a written piece—even anonymously, if that's what you're comfortable with.
We'd love to hear more from you.
—Maya, Editor, Campus magazine
My first instinct was to delete it.
Not even open it.
Just pretend it never happened.
But I read it. Twice. Then again.
I didn't reply.
I couldn't.
Because I wasn't sure which was scarier—being asked to share more, or realizing I wanted to.
I stared at my inbox for most of the afternoon. My cursor hovered over the "Reply" button like it had teeth.
Amelia found me like that.
"You're doing that thing where your forehead crumples," she said, leaning over my shoulder.
I tilted the screen away from her. "It's nothing."
"Is it magazine stuff?"
I looked up sharply. "How did you—?"
She grinned. "Because your sketch was good enough to get noticed. I figured someone would reach out."
I hesitated. "They want me to contribute more."
"And?"
"I don't know. It feels... real now."
Amelia didn't tease. Not this time.
"Sometimes things becoming real is the first step toward becoming yours."
Later that day, I escaped to the café, hoping for some mental distance. That was a mistake. Ethan was already there, hunched over a psychology paper, sleeves pushed up, hair a mess. He looked like chaos incarnate and somehow still better than everyone else.
He looked up. "Hey."
I sat across from him. Said nothing.
He closed his laptop slowly. "You look like you're running from something."
"Opportunity," I muttered.
He blinked. "Huh. That's new."
I pulled out my phone. Showed him the email.
He read it carefully, his jaw tightening—not with anger, but focus.
"This is good," he said. "They're asking you to trust your voice."
"What if I don't trust it?"
"You don't have to. Yet." He slid the phone back to me. "You just have to let it speak."
We sat in silence for a while. The kind that hums not presses.
Then, out of nowhere, he asked, "Do you still think you're only worth what you can prove?"
It wasn't judgment in his voice. Just quiet knowing.
"Because if you do," he continued, "you'll burn out before you ever give yourself the chance to feel joy."
I looked away, suddenly very interested in the lid of my coffee.
And then—before I could overthink it—he reached across the table, fingers brushing mine. Not grabbing. Just a touch. Like punctuation.
"You don't have to say yes," he said. "But I hope you don't keep saying no because you're afraid of being seen."
His thumb lingered over my knuckle for half a second before pulling away.
And just like that, the air shifted.
I felt it settle in my chest like warmth after a long, aching cold.
Later that night, I found Amelia on her bed, sketchbook open, highlighters scattered around like confetti.
"I think I'm going to reply," I said.
She looked up, startled. Then broke into a grin. "Are we... saying yes to things now?"
"Don't push it."
"I'm so proud of you," she whispered. "Like... obnoxiously proud. Prepare for celebratory cookies."
She lunged for the snack drawer like it was a sacred ritual.
And me?
I opened a new tab.
Typed slowly.
Hi Maya,
Thank you for reaching out. I'd love to contribute to the next issue. I'd prefer to stay anonymous, but I'll send something over soon.
I hovered over Send.
My finger trembled slightly.
Then I clicked.
Just like that, a piece of me stepped out of hiding.
Before I slept, I wrote one more line in my notebook. It wasn't a poem. Just a thought.
"When someone notices you for the first time, it doesn't feel like light. It feels like being afraid the light will disappear."
But it hadn't. Not yet.
And maybe, if I let it stay, I'd get used to the brightness.