Twenty-Four Hours Earlier…
In the stillness of the early morning, the soft hum of the clock on her desk ticked away the seconds. Rose, a girl with shoulder-length blonde hair, sat hunched over her cluttered reading desk in her small, dimly lit room. Her glasses, with their round frames, perched precariously on the bridge of her nose as she scribbled furiously on a sheet of paper. The only light in the room came from a faint glow of a lamp by her side, illuminating the hastily written words in front of her. Her fingers moved quickly over the pen, crafting the final sentences of her poem. The scratch of ink on paper was almost rhythmic, a quiet symphony of thoughts she had poured out onto the page.
As she placed the pen down, she leaned back in her chair and let out a long, contented sigh. Her eyes scanned the words she'd just written, a small, satisfied smile forming on her lips. The poem was complete—her first one of the school year. The feeling of accomplishment settled in her chest, warming her from the inside. It was something she had been working on for weeks, and now it was finally finished. It wasn't perfect, but it felt genuine—a reflection of her thoughts, emotions, and the subtle way she saw the world.
But just as she was about to reread it one more time, she heard a voice from downstairs.
Mom: Rose!! Hurry up and get ready! Or you'll be late for your first day of school!
The voice, sharp yet tinged with concern, belonged to her mother. Rose froze, her eyes widening in sudden realization. She glanced at the digital clock on her bedside table, which blinked at 7:45 AM. A cold wave of panic hit her as she processed the time. School started at 8:30 AM, and she had barely enough time to get ready—if she rushed.
Rose: Crap! I didn't know I took that much time!
It was her first day of third year—she couldn't afford to be late. Not today.
In a frantic rush, she scrambled out of her chair, her heart pounding in her chest. The story—her masterpiece—was forgotten for the moment. She yanked off her oversized sweater and discarded it on the bed as she dashed toward the bathroom. There wasn't a second to lose. The sound of her bare feet slapping against the cold floor echoed in the quiet house as she fumbled with the doorknob and shoved the door open.
The bathroom mirror reflected a disheveled, panicked version of herself, with stray strands of blonde hair falling into her face. The shower was already running, the steam filling the room and fogging up the mirror as she quickly undressed, her mind racing through the mental checklist of what needed to be done. A shower. Hair. Uniform. Breakfast.
Rose: Come on, come on.
She muttered under her breath as she stepped into the hot stream of water. The warm water soothed her body, but her thoughts were in overdrive. She had spent the last few weeks preparing mentally for her third-year classes, planning what she would wear, what she would say to her friends, and how she would handle the new year. She didn't want to start off on the wrong foot. Yet, here she was, racing against the clock, her dreams of a composed first day slipping through her fingers.
The water cascaded down her body as she scrubbed quickly, knowing she had to move fast. Every movement was rushed, hurried, as if the minutes were escaping her. She turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around her body before rushing out of the bathroom.
Her mother called again from downstairs, her voice filled with the usual urgency.
Mom: Rose, you better be ready in ten minutes!
Rose shot her a quick nod as she grabbed her school uniform from her closet, pulling it on with hasty motions. She didn't have time to iron it, but that was the least of her worries. The tie. She struggled with it, her fingers trembling as she tried to make the knot tight enough. The clock on her desk ticked louder in her ears as she threw her hair into a messy ponytail. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.
With one last glance at the clock, she grabbed her backpack, slinging it over her shoulder and hurried downstairs.
****
As Rose came downstairs, she was greeted by her mother, a young woman with blonde hair, who had already set out toast on the table. Her five-year-old brother sat nearby, eating his cereal. Rose quickly grabbed a piece of toast and ate it almost immediately, surprising both her mother and brother.
Mom: You're in a hurry. Anything special happening today?
Rose swallowed the last bite of her toast and answered, sipping her milk.
Rose: Yeah, it's the first day of school, and I have to submit my short story early today so it can be published in the school paper by Wednesday. And I don't want to be late—especially not on the first day. (She pauses.) Not again.
Her mom chuckled, remembering the last time Rose had been late on the first day of the previous term. Rose had been visibly upset.
Mom: Do you want me to drop you off?
Rose: No, it's okay, Mom. You still have to take Ethan to school, right?
Mom: Alright then. But you'd better get going if you don't want to be late.
Rose: Right!
Glancing at the time, Rose quickly raced to the door, waving goodbye to her mother and little brother as she headed outside.
As she approached the road leading to her school, she spotted her friend Amanda already waiting for her.
Amanda: I thought it would take the end of the world to get you to show up.
Rose: (adjusting her glasses) Sorry.
Amanda: (sighs) Let's just go already.
The two girls began their walk to school, joining a group of other students taking the same route.
****
My name is Rose Takamura.
I'm just a regular 17-year-old girl, trying to navigate life and figure out where I belong. But if there's one thing you should know about me, it's that I have an absolute passion for writing stories.
Writing is my escape, my joy, and my dream.
From the moment I picked up a pencil, I've been drawn to the idea of creating worlds, characters, and experiences from nothing but the boundless space of my imagination. The ability to take a thought, shape it into something more, and weave it into a story that can captivate others—it's all I've ever wanted to do. But you might be wondering, how did this passion come to life? How did I, just a regular girl, fall so deeply in love with writing? Well, let me take you back to where it all began.
It was my seventh birthday when everything changed for me. My mom and dad had planned this special day, and as part of the celebration, they took me to the movies. Initially, we were all set to watch a movie that had been on my mind for weeks, but, as luck would have it, the theater had sold out. We were disappointed but made the best of it by picking the next available show. This movie, though, turned out to be something entirely unexpected, and it sparked a fire within me that would last a lifetime.
The movie was called The Endless Page.
It told the story of a lonely boy named Theo who, while wandering a small bookstore, stumbled upon an old book titled The Endless Page. The strange part was, the book wrote itself as Theo read it, with the protagonist, a girl named Ilia, speaking directly to him from the pages. She claimed that she was trapped inside the book, and only by helping Theo finish the incomplete story could she escape. As Theo got deeper into the book, he realized something even more profound—his emotions and memories were beginning to shape the narrative itself. He had to rewrite his own past to save Ilia and complete the story.
The Endless Page wasn't just a movie to me. It was a window into a new world, one where stories were alive and breathing, where imagination held real power. The way the movie was visualized, how the narrative intertwined with Theo's life, left an indelible mark on my mind. I couldn't stop thinking about it. Every scene, every twist, every turn—it was all so incredibly well-crafted, and I couldn't help but wonder, how did someone come up with this idea?
That question lingered in my mind for weeks. How do you craft a story so intricate, so emotional, so real? I wanted to know.
More than that, I wanted to create stories like that—stories that could make someone feel, think, and wonder. I wanted to write something that people would fall in love with, something that would live on in their minds long after the last page was turned or the credits rolled.
I still have the poster for The Endless Page hanging on my wall. It's faded slightly from the years, but it still serves as a reminder of the moment that changed everything for me. I wanted to be the kind of storyteller that could leave an impact like that on someone.
So, I decided to start writing stories.
I didn't know where to begin, but I was determined. I began by jotting down ideas in a notebook, experimenting with plots, characters, and worlds of my own making. At first, it was a struggle. My early stories were scattered, disconnected, and—honestly—quite rough. But that didn't stop me. I kept pushing forward, refining my craft, teaching myself how to write better and more creatively.
It wasn't an overnight transformation, but with time, I began to shape my stories into something I was proud of. I remember feeling a sense of accomplishment when I finally finished my first complete story. It wasn't perfect, but it was mine, and that was enough. Slowly, I began to grow more confident in my abilities, honing my skills with every word I wrote.
By the time I entered my second year of high school, I had something to show for all my hard work. I had a collection of short stories, some of which I was really proud of, and I was ready to share them. That's when I decided to submit them to our school paper.
Every Wednesday, the paper would come out, and students would gather around to see the latest stories, reports, and updates. Mrs. Emily Brown, our English teacher, was in charge of overseeing the submissions. I figured that getting my stories published in the paper would be a great way to share my work—and maybe even inspire others to take up writing too.
But here's the thing—I was terrified.
I wasn't ready for anyone to know the real me. I wasn't ready for anyone to associate my real name with the stories I wrote. So, I did what any nervous writer would do—I used a pen name. I came up with something on the spot: Reckless Soul. It felt right, it felt daring, and it felt like a part of me. So, for the entire school year, I sent my stories to Mrs. Brown, and each week, my work appeared in the paper under that name.
It felt like a secret, a piece of myself that only a select few knew about. And even though I was hiding behind a pen name, I was still sharing my work with the world, and that was enough to fuel me. Week after week, I saw my stories printed and read by my classmates. People started recognizing the name Reckless Soul, and I began to feel like maybe, just maybe, I was on the right path. Maybe I was cut out for this after all.
At least, that's what I thought.
*****
It was now lunchtime, and Rose sat at her desk, enjoying her lunch in the quiet of the classroom. Her best friend, Amanda, sat across from her, munching on her sandwich, the two of them lost in the usual chatter. The hum of voices and clatter of cutlery from the students in the hallway filled the air. It had been a long morning of lessons, and Rose was looking forward to the short break.
But just as she was about to take another bite, the class rep walked into the room, her eyes scanning the classroom until they landed on Rose.
Mrs Emily wanted to see her.
Moments later, Rose stood at the entrance to Mrs. Emily's office. After taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door. A few seconds later, she heard a voice calling from inside.
Mrs. Emily: Come in.
Rose entered the neatly arranged office, which was lined with bookshelves and trophies. Seated at the desk was a beautiful woman with silver hair and sharp, dark eyes.
Rose: You called for me, Mrs. Emily?
Mrs. Emily didn't immediately respond. Instead, she reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She placed it in front of her and pushed it toward Rose. The paper was covered with notes and scribbles in Mrs. Emily's neat handwriting, and Rose's stomach sank as she realized what it was.
Mrs. Emily: It's about the short story you submitted.
Rose's heart skipped a beat. The short story she had written for the school paper? She had worked so hard on it, pouring all her creativity into the words. She couldn't understand what had gone wrong. Was it that bad?
Her mind scrambled to recall every detail of the story, but before she could gather her thoughts, Mrs. Emily's voice broke through again.
Rose: What is it, ma'am?
Mrs. Emily looked at her carefully, the seriousness in her eyes sending a chill down Rose's spine. The woman set her pen down on the desk, and for a moment, there was only silence. Then, in a voice that was almost too soft, too calm, Mrs. Emily spoke again.
Mrs. Emily: I don't think I want you to write short stories for the school paper anymore.