The email almost disappeared.
Just another subject line in a crowded inbox.
Saw your piece on the wellness blog, would love to chat.
Her finger hovered over archive. But then her eyes froze on the name at the bottom.
Ama Daramola.
Something tugged at her memory.
Ama wasn't just another editor. She was the one whose essays had once stopped Ariah mid-scroll words that lingered like smoke, heavy and unshakable. Ama's writing had felt like permission.
Now, Ama was asking to meet her.
They chose a garden café tucked between quiet streets, a place that smelled faintly of hibiscus and wet leaves. The kind of place too gentle to hold anything important. And yet Ariah's chest buzzed with nerves.
When Ama walked in, her presence filled the space before her words did. Loose braids, steady eyes, confidence worn like a shawl. She ordered clove-and-lemon tea and leaned forward, questions soft but piercing.
How long have you known this is what you wanted?
What stories are you scared to write?
Who do you write for when no one is watching?
The questions weren't tests. They were invitations. And before she knew it, Ariah's answers spilled out raw, unfiltered, things she hadn't even admitted to herself.
Ama listened like silence was sacred. Then, with a voice both gentle and certain, she said:
You don't need to be viral. You just need to be honest.
The words clung to her, sharper than praise.
Because hadn't she been chasing noise all along, just to prove she mattered?
When they parted, Ama touched her arm, just for a second.
You have something. Let's not rush it. Let's build it.
For days, Ariah replayed that moment, like a secret she wasn't sure she deserved.
Then came another email.
A link.
An application to a fellowship she had never heard of.
No big names. No glittering headlines. But the description stole her breath:
For storytellers rooted in truth, in the margins, in the soft corners most people miss.
Her first instinct was to close the tab. She wasn't ready. She wasn't enough.
But Ama's words circled back like a drumbeat:
You don't need to be viral. You just need to be honest.
So she applied.
Not perfectly. Not with rehearsed brilliance.
But with honesty. With trembling hands.
She hit send.
And then waited.
Days passed. Nothing.
Weeks. Silence.
Until one ordinary evening, mid-folding laundry, her phone buzzed.
Subject line: Fellowship Application - Decision.
Her chest tightened.
Her thumb hovered over it.
Open. Don't open. Open.
The message sat there, unopened.
Waiting.