The building does not look like it produces books.
That is my first thought as I stand outside it, checking the address again, half-expecting it to correct itself out of embarrassment. The glass door is smudged with fingerprints. A crooked flyer for a local poetry reading clings to the corner with one strip of tape, peeling like it is tired of believing in itself.
This is it.
I push the door open.
Inside, it is louder than I expect.
Not chaos. Just motion. Phones ringing. A burst of laughter that goes on a second too long. Papers shuffling. A printer making a noise that sounds like a threat. The air smells like burnt coffee that has been reheated, forgotten, reheated again.
There is no reverence here.
No leather chairs. No hushed voices discussing the future of literature. Just desks pressed too close together, shelves sagging under manuscripts, sticky notes everywhere like the walls are trying to remember things out loud.
I suddenly become very aware of my clothes.
My shirt is clean, but it does not say anything impressive. My shoes are fine, but they do not inspire confidence. I have the sharp, unpleasant feeling of having shown up to the right place with the wrong version of myself.
"Hey. You must be Ashton Bennett."
A woman with red-framed glasses waves at me with a coffee mug that says Edit ruthlessly. She does not wait for me to confirm.
"I'm Paula," she says. "Welcome to the circus."
She gestures vaguely at the room.
"Don't worry," she adds, already walking. "No one actually knows what they are doing. We just get better at pretending. Hope this will be a helpful and enjoyable experience for you."
That helps. A little.
She points things out as we move. Editorial. Production. A cluster of interns sharing one desk and a dying plant that looks like it has seen too much.
"Grab a chair wherever," she says. "We'll start you slow."
I nod and sit, gripping my bag like it contains evidence that I belong here.
I have barely settled when someone leans over the divider.
He looks about thirty. His hair has the permanent look of someone who was interrupted mid-crisis.
"New guy," he says. "You read fast?"
"I think so."
"Good. Thoughts on this?"
He drops a manuscript into my lap and disappears back into his chair like this is normal.
No explanation. No preamble.
I skim at first, then slow down.
The voice is strong. Too strong, maybe. Drowning in its own cleverness. Every emotion explained twice. Every image stretched until it frays. There is a scene in the middle that circles the same argument for twenty pages, each paragraph trying to outdo the last metaphor.
I feel something click into place in my head. A familiar mode. Quiet. Focused.
When he looks back over, I clear my throat.
"The opening works," I say. "The middle sinks under itself. There is a good scene here but it is buried. I would cut about twenty pages and trust the silence more. The ending earns what it asks for."
He stares at me.
Then he nods.
"Yeah," he says. "That's what I thought too."
He takes the manuscript and turns away.
No test. No correction. No polite disagreement.
Just agreement.
Something settles in my chest.
Not excitement. Not joy.
Footing.
Time moves strangely after that.
Paula asks me to sit in on a meeting. No introduction. No spotlight. I am just there. Someone argues passionately about a comma. Someone else defends a terrible title like it is their firstborn child. I listen. I follow. I understand more than I expected to.
At one point, someone looks at me and asks, "Ash, what do you think?"
I answer.
They listen.
Hours later, I leave with ink on my fingers and a dull headache behind my eyes. The city outside looks exactly the same.
I do not.
This is not a dream. It is not salvation.
It is work.
And I'm satisfied with it.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
It is night. I am sitting on the edge of the bed with my laptop balanced on my knees, inbox open, pretending to be productive. Josh is in the other room typing like the keyboard personally offended him. Cars pass outside. Someone laughs down the block. Ordinary sounds. Survivable sounds.
I click a tab I should not.
I do not remember deciding to.
The page loads.
A venue name. Elegant. Familiar in the way places become when they belong to someone else's future. A date beneath it. Close enough to hurt. Far enough to feel finished.
There is a photo.
Not of her. Not fully. Just the corner of white fabric. A hand mid-gesture. A ring catching the light like it is proud of itself.
My body reacts before my mind does.
Pressure in my chest. A brief ringing in my ears. The old instinct rises immediately. To read everything. To absorb every detail. To prove something by enduring it.
Then I close the tab.
No hesitation. No pause to negotiate with myself.
Just a clean click.
The screen goes dark. My reflection stares back for a second. Pale. Tired. Upright.
This is not strength.
It is not healing.
It is discipline.
I sit there and let the sensation pass through instead of turning it into a story. The pain does not disappear. It moves on, like a wave that was never invited to stay.
Josh coughs in the other room. A horn blares outside. Life continues with its usual lack of concern.
I lower the laptop and set it aside.
Lena exists without me.
And tonight, I let that be enough.