The world outside didn't notice her much, and honestly, she didn't mind.
Mira liked the quiet. The kind of quiet that came from soft rain tapping against the window, the lazy purring of her cat curled on the blanket, and the scratch of her pen sliding across a notebook she bought on impulse just because the cover was pretty. She didn't need crowded cafés or noisy friends. She had her little corner of the world — a small attic room filled with books, tiny lamps, mismatched mugs, and shelves where her handmade crafts sat like quiet witnesses to her days.
She made bracelets from glass beads, pressed flowers into journals, and painted tiny stars on wooden boxes. Nothing fancy. Just things that made her heart warm.
Mira wasn't sure when the idea started. Maybe it was after reading her favorite book for the third time, when she closed the cover and whispered, "I wish I could make something like this." Or maybe it was on one of those nights when the loneliness felt soft, not sharp — the kind of loneliness that whispered, "This could be your story."
So, she picked up her pen.
She didn't know what she was doing. The sentences came out crooked, shy, and uncertain. Characters refused to behave. The world she tried to build kept collapsing into clichés and half-formed ideas. When she reread it, she groaned and muttered, "This is crap."
But she didn't stop.
She wrote through the self-doubt, through the nights when the only light in the room came from her tiny lamp and the blinking cursor on her old laptop. Her cat, Pumpkin, would crawl onto her lap and sleep as if to remind her that quiet dreams were worth keeping.
The story wasn't good. Not yet. But it was hers.
And that was enough for a beginning.