Sometimes I still wake up expecting the world to be kind.
To hand me a blank page and say, here, start over.
But that's not how life works.
Life doesn't hand you clean pages. It keeps reminding you of the ink you've already spilled.
My name is A.K.
Or maybe that's just what's left of me now.
I used to be the name behind other people's glory. The invisible voice that made readers cry, laugh, fall in love. I used to breathe stories like air. I used to believe words could save people.
Then one story ruined everything.
One headline.
One accusation that spread faster than the truth ever could.
It's strange how silence becomes your only friend after a scandal.
I got used to it. The quiet of my apartment. The steady hum of my old laptop. The soft click of keys as I tried to write something, anything, just to feel alive again.
That night was like every other.
Coffee gone cold beside me. Cursor blinking on an empty page. The kind of emptiness that mocks you.
Then my laptop chimed.
A new mail
I almost ignored it. Most of the emails I get these days are junk or reminders that I owe someone something. But the name on the screen made my fingers freeze.
It wasn't possible.
Not unless the dead had learned how to send emails.