The evening arrived with a sky bruised in gray and violet.
Nadine returned home later than usual, her bag heavier with books she hadn't needed. The quiet streets did nothing to soothe the knot forming in her chest.
At the door, she was met with her parents' voices.
"You've been neglecting your studies again," Nadia said sharply, though not without restraint.
Franck added, "You should think about what really matters. All this… writing… it isn't practical."
Nadine's stomach twisted. She opened her mouth, but no words came. She wanted to argue, to defend herself—but the fatigue of the past weeks weighed too heavily.
Maybe they're right, she thought. Maybe it's all useless.
She climbed to her room, shoulders slumped, and dropped onto her bed. The notebook lay closed on the desk, a silent accusation.
Why am I doing this? she whispered. For whom? For what?
The phone buzzed once. A message from Maggy.
MOONLOOM: Hey, are you okay? You seem… off today.
Nadine stared at the screen. She wanted to reply. She wanted to ignore it. She wanted to disappear entirely.
She didn't respond.
Later, she opened the laptop, StoryBloom already logged in. Her dashboard showed new rankings, new contests, and new comments.
One comment caught her eye:
"YUMEWRITE hasn't updated in ages. Maybe she's given up. Sad."
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. The words stung sharper than any personal criticism. The invisible weight of thousands of eyes, silent but expectant, pressed on her chest.
Her mind raced. Maybe I should just stop. It's easier. No one will notice…
Dinner was tense. Her parents' casual remarks about the future, about college, about responsibilities, felt heavier than usual. Every word seemed to underscore her "failures," every glance hinted at disappointment.
Nadine pushed her plate away, heart pounding, mind spinning.
Maybe they're right, she thought again. I'm wasting my time. I can't compete with SORA. I can't even keep up with the simplest contests. Why keep trying?
Her chest tightened. Her hands shook slightly. She looked at the notebook on her desk. The pen lay beside it like a silent judge.
Maybe I should leave it closed forever.
Hours passed. Nadine lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The rain had started outside, drumming softly on the windows. Each droplet seemed to echo the pounding of her heart.
Maybe I'm just not cut out for this.
Tears welled in her eyes. She had almost given up entirely, almost accepted the ease of letting go.
She thought of Maggy, of the few readers who had stayed loyal, of the dreams she had once allowed herself to imagine—the manga adaptations, the light novels, the stories reaching people.
And then she thought of the bookstore.
The smell of paper and ink, the display of printed books, the flyer for the monthly meetup.
Somewhere, beyond all doubt and critique, those things existed. Writers had made it happen. People had believed long enough for words to take shape in reality.
Nadine's hand moved involuntarily. She reached for the notebook.
Not to publish. Not to compete. Not yet.
Just to write.
A single sentence appeared on the page:
I don't have to give up.
The words felt fragile, tentative, like the first buds of spring after a long winter.
But they existed.
And that was enough for tonight.