The evening air was cooler than Alina expected. She hugged her coat tighter as she walked, the streets is filed with people heading home. A house, she thought, was just bricks and stone. what's so special about it, but it became a home only when someone is waiting for you inside, someone who offered warmth, peace, and love. A place where you could finally feel safe. That was what home truly meant!
Neon signs flickering to life one by one. That's what she truly love about night .The laughter she'd shared with Maya still clung faintly to her, but beneath it, another feeling slowly crept in quiet and heavy. Her steps slowed without her noticing.
What the heck am I thinking? The thought came sudden, sharp. I can't even manage a simple conversation without feeling awkward. And here I am, thinking I can write something worth reading.
She tried to shake it off, but her thoughts are not getting away. The voices in her head started building, piling up one after another like she is getting into the dark tunnel where she can only enter.
Writers don't need someone to tell them what to do. They don't sit there wondering if every sentence is right . They just know that they can write, that type of confidence, I don't have . Writers don't need to run to cafes for inspiration. Writers don't fumble with coffee machines. Writers know what they're doing. And me? I can't even figure myself out.
Alina looked at her reflection in a darkened shop window. Just her hair a little messy, face tired from the day. Nothing about her looked like the "writer" she had always imagined. No confidence, no spark, just… ordinary. She pulled her scarf a little higher around her neck and kept walking, the doubt was still there.
Maybe Maya's right. Maybe people like Rishi. loud, sure of themselves, quick with words they're the ones who belong in stories. Not me. What do I even have to say that hasn't been said a thousand times already? Even If I listen to Maya and start writing again, what should I write? they have fabulous stories written by the great Authors.
The worst part was, a tiny part of her believed it. may be someday she will return where she actually belongs to. That all the scribbles in her notebooks, all the late night dreams of "someday I'll write and someone out there willing to listen my story," Ended up being only a dream..
By the time she reached her street, she felt heavier than when she'd left the cafe. The glow of the day, the laughter, even the irritation at Rishi all of it had been swallowed by that quiet, familiar voice whispering:
You're not enough.
Alina unlocked the door to her place, stepped inside, and leaned back against it for a second. She closed her eyes.
I shouldn't have gone! she regretted .
Alina kicked off her shoes near the door and dropped her bag onto the chair. The silence of her little room pressed in immediately. No chatter, no coffee machines humming in the background, no Maya pulling her into laughter. Just the steady tick of the old clock on the wall.
She set water to boil and made herself a simple cup of hot water. may be she needed that most. She sat by the desk, staring at her notebook. It lay there, closed, almost mocking. She reached out, flipped it open. Blank pages stared back at her. Her fingers toyed with the pen, but nothing came. No sentences, no characters, not even a beginning. The voices in her head returned
If you can't even write one line, how do you expect to finish a story?
She scribbled a word. Then scratched it out. Tried again. Same result. The page looked worse now, messy with half-formed words she didn't believe in.
With a sigh, she pushed the notebook away and leaned back in her chair. Her hot water had already gone cold.
By ten, she tried distracting herself. She put on soft music, scrolled through her phone for a while, even rearranged a stack of books on her desk. But every quiet moment pulled her back to the same thought Maybe Maya had too much faith in me.
Her room was too quite, the silence pressing down on her until it made her uneasy. She grabbed her bag from the chair and walked out, leaving the room behind.
Now alone on the street, she wandered aimlessly down the street. The cool air wrapped around her, and for the first time that evening, she felt little lighter. May be this was what she needed all along. She found a spot and sat down, letting the night breathe for her. until she notice something a piece of paper? She paused, bent down, and picked up almost absentmindedly. pamphlet? a little crumpled from the edges, but the bold headline still stood out clearly under the streetlight.
CALLING ALL WRITERS!
Her eyes were fixed on the words. in a neath print, the rest reads:
We are looking for genuine love stories, heartfelt and real to be adapted into a drama production. if you believe your words carry truth, submit your work to the address below.
staring at the page she felt like it had been written for her. All the thing she dreamt of, but never dared to claim for herself. A part of her wanted to laugh at herself Me? Writer?
She traced the lines of address with her thumb. Hope. Doubt. Fear. They all mixed together until she couldn't tell which weighted heavier.
she wanted to throw he paper back onto the road, but her fingers refused to let go. Maybe ! Maybe! this is a destiny? It could be a door, one she had been too afraid to knock before .
She folded the paper carefully and tucked it inside her bag. the street was same, empty. but no longer felt alone.
By the time she reached her room, the night had grown heavier. she sank into the chair, resting her chin in her palms. ''Writers'' she whispered under her breath, like it belong to someone else, someone far away. I'm not one of them . I'm just someone who scribbles thoughts when no one's watching. I don't even know how to write the way real writers do.
She wanted to tear the paper, crumple it, throw it away. yet her hands betrayed her. A flicker of possibility stirred inside her, faint but undeniable. what if she tried? what if, for once, she..... write ?
But doubts returned quickly, louder this time What if they laugh at me ? What if my words aren't good enough? What if i fail before i even begin?
By eleven, she had brushed her teeth, washed her face, and slipped into bed. She turned off the light, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and closed her eyes.
But her mind wouldn't settle.
Scenes from earlier kept replaying Maya's bright encouragement, her own reflection in the shop window.
You're not good enough. You'll only disappoint her. What's the point in even trying?
She flipped onto her side. Then her back. Then the other side. Each time she thought she was close to sleep, a new doubt dragged her awake.
The clock glowed 12:47. Then 1:26. Then 2:10.
Her eyes burned, but her brain refused to stop. She pulled the blanket over her head, frustrated. A tiny laugh escaped her at how ridiculous it was grown woman, trapped by her own thoughts. But even the laugh faded into the heavy quiet. Her thoughts were washing away while seeing the pamphlet
Finally, she folded the pamphlet again, more carefully this time, and slipped it under her pillow. Almost like a secret she wasn't ready to share, not even with herself .
As she lay down her eyes were fixed, on the celling . sleep didn't come easily, but for the first time in a long while, her dreams felt heavier, full of questions she wasn't sure she wanted answered.
And yet, deep inside she knew... tomorrow the pamphlet would still be there.
Waiting.
Morning sunlight streamed weakly through her curtains, She sat on the edge of her bed, the pamphlet still tucked under her pillow. All night , It had keep whispering to her, pulling her towards a decision she wasn't sure she was ready for.
But today, something inside her felt different.
What's the worse that can happen?
She told herself as she opened her drawer and pulled out a neatly printed manuscript . Her story that she wrote once... She hadn't thought much of it back then, when she wrote the story.
Clutching the papers tightly, she walked to the address printed on the pamphlet. her heart raced with every step, but she refused to let her mind overthink . No expectation. No dreams. Just try once and get it over with
The building stood tall, buzzing with nervous energy. Writers of all kinds filled the waiting area, their manuscripts stacked in their laps, their faces a mix of hope and fear. she took a seat , hugging her story to her chest, trying to take a breathe
For both first and second round - against her own expectation she got chosen.
Now, only the final round remained. The judge was no ordinary person everyone said it was a famous actor, some one whose name carried weight, ''Kai Arden" someone who could change everything .
Her stomach twisted into knots. She tightened her grip on her manuscript. This is it. No turning back now.
She was sitting in the waiting area, holding her manuscript so tight that the corners had started to bend. Her name wasn't called yet. The curtain behind her separated the judge from everyone else, but his voice carried through easily.
At first , she tried not to listen . But then his tone - sharp, harsh, almost cutting.
''This is absolute rubbish!'' he snapped. ''You call this writing? You don't even know how to write a proper story. Don't waste my time with this nonsense"
Her stomach dropped. the writer who came out looked shattered, holding their papers like they were piece of themselves that had just been torn apart.
The anger she was carrying. Like a volcano that can be burst anytime . ''How can someone talk like that? '' She thought. ''Doesn't he know how much effort goes into writing even a single page''
Her throat tightened for a second, she thought of going in and defending herself. but then her pride stopped her. she grabbed her bag and stood up .
''No'' she whispered to herself . ''If this is how he treats writers, then I don't need his approval. My talent is not a trash . I know what I can do . I won't waste it here''
she walked out without even seeing his face. All she knew was his name - Kai Arden
And in that instant, she decided he hated him.