The city was already buzzing when Daisy Collins stepped off the bus and onto the pavement, clutching her file close to her chest. The building that stood before her gleamed with glass windows reflecting the sun—City Herald Media House. Just the sight of it made her stomach flutter. This wasn't the first time she had walked into an office like this in search of a job, but today felt different. Today had to be different.
She smoothed down her beige jacket, adjusted her glasses, and whispered under her breath, You can do this, Daisy. You worked hard for this.
Inside, the reception area was polished and quiet, the kind of professional space that reminded her how small-town she truly was. She signed her name at the desk and was guided to the waiting area, where other candidates sat stiffly in chairs, scrolling on their phones or fidgeting with resumes. Daisy folded her hands together to keep them from trembling.
Her thoughts ran back to her grandmother's blessing that morning: "Go with hope, my child. May destiny guide you today."
When her name was finally called, Daisy stood and followed the assistant into a bright conference room. Three people sat at a long table—two men and one woman, all in formal suits. Their expressions were unreadable, and Daisy's heart raced.
"Miss Daisy Collins," one of them greeted, glancing at her file. "You've recently graduated with a degree in journalism. Congratulations."
"Thank you, sir," Daisy replied politely, forcing a steady smile.
"Let's begin with something simple. Why did you choose journalism?" the woman on the panel asked, leaning forward.
Daisy inhaled slowly. "Because I believe stories change people. Growing up in a small town, I saw how powerful even the local newspaper could be. It shaped opinions, spread awareness, and gave voices to those who otherwise went unheard. I wanted to be a part of that—to give people a voice."
The panel nodded, intrigued. Another man adjusted his glasses. "Tell us about a project you worked on during your graduation."
Her heart lifted—finally, something she knew well. "For my final-year project, I worked on a piece called 'The Forgotten Workers'. It was an investigative feature on street vendors who struggle daily to make ends meet, often overlooked by society. I spent weeks interviewing them, documenting their lives, and highlighting how policies affected them. The project was published in our college magazine and was appreciated for its depth and authenticity."
One of the interviewers scribbled notes. "Impressive. So, you're not afraid of fieldwork?"
"Not at all," Daisy replied confidently. "In fact, I enjoy it. Journalism isn't just about sitting at a desk—it's about being out there, connecting with people, listening to them, and bringing their truth forward."
The woman smiled faintly. "And how do you handle rejection or setbacks? This field can be… unforgiving."
Daisy thought of all the rejections she had faced already, of the five different media houses that had said no. She straightened her shoulders. "Every 'no' is just one step closer to a 'yes'. If I believe in myself and keep improving, rejection won't stop me—it will push me harder."
There was a brief silence, then the man at the center nodded. "Thank you, Miss Collins. That will be all for now. We'll get back to you."
Daisy stood, bowing her head respectfully. "Thank you for the opportunity."
As she walked out, her heart was a storm of emotions. She replayed every answer in her head—wondering if she had spoken too fast, too slow, too much. But deep down, she felt she had done her best.
Outside the building, she let out a long breath and looked up at the sky. "I hope this is it," she whispered. "Please let this be the one."
---
Meanwhile, in another corner of the city, Charlie Smith's day had already begun on a very different stage.
The rehearsal hall echoed with music as his band tuned their instruments. The polished wooden floors reflected the bright overhead lights, and the faint hum of microphones filled the air. Charlie stood at the center, adjusting the mic stand as he rolled his shoulders, preparing himself.
"Alright, let's go from the top," he said, his deep voice steady, commanding attention.
As the first beats of the guitar struck, Charlie's voice filled the room—rich, powerful, magnetic. Even in a simple rehearsal, his singing carried the weight of emotion that fans adored. The crew around him paused, watching, because every note he sang seemed to reach into the soul.
When the song ended, a round of applause broke out, not from thousands of fans this time, but from the small circle of his team.
"That was fire," one of the guitarists grinned.
Charlie gave a brief nod, his expression calm. Compliments rarely reached him anymore—he had heard them too many times. But deep down, he knew this was the only place he felt truly alive—behind the mic.
Just then, John Edwards, his longtime manager, walked in with a folder under his arm. Sharp in his suit, John exuded the kind of authority that kept Charlie's career running smoothly.
"Great run, Charlie," John said, clapping once. "But we've got bigger things to talk about. The label wants you to headline the International Music Festival next month. It's going to be televised, millions watching worldwide. This is your chance to step into the global spotlight."
The band buzzed with excitement, but Charlie remained quiet, taking a sip of water. His eyes flickered with thought.
"Do I even want more spotlight?" he muttered under his breath.
John caught it but smiled anyway, placing the folder on a nearby chair. "Spotlight is what makes you, Charlie. Fans don't just love your music—they believe in you. You've worked hard to reach here. Don't forget that."
Charlie didn't argue, though something unsettled lingered in his eyes. He simply nodded. "Alright. We'll do it."
John smiled, satisfied. "That's the spirit."
---
Later that evening, Daisy returned home to the warmth of the food stall, where her parents were already busy serving customers. She tied on her apron without a word, jumping into work. The stall bustled with noise, but her mind was still back in the interview room.
Her grandmother noticed her quietness and asked gently, "How was it, child?"
Daisy smiled faintly. "It went well, I think. They asked about my projects, about why I chose journalism. I answered honestly… I just hope it's enough."
Her grandmother patted her hand. "If you gave your heart, then it is enough. Now leave the rest to destiny."
Daisy nodded, though her heart still twisted with anticipation.
Across the city, Charlie stood on a grand stage, staring at rows of empty seats as the crew packed up. For him, tomorrow meant another rehearsal, another performance. For Daisy, tomorrow meant waiting, hoping for one call that could change her life.