I hold the pen now.
I don't know why, but something in me believes it.
That I could do anything with this pen. That it isn't just ink and plastic, but something else.
Something waiting.
It doesn't glow. Doesn't hum.
But the weight of it—it's wrong, or maybe it's too right. Like holding a promise that hasn't been spoken yet.
I go to my room.
The house is dim, the air thick with quiet. No one's called my name. No one's asked where I've been.
I change clothes.
My usual: a plain white shirt and old sweatpants. Soft from too many washes. Faded at the knees.
I don't know why I always choose these, but I do. Maybe because they don't ask anything from me.
The pen is still in my hand. I haven't put it down once.
I sit on the bed, notebook open on my lap.
Pages full of nothing. Scribbles. Half-formed thoughts. Homework I didn't finish.
All of it feels far away now.
I look at the blank page.
The pen hovers just above it.
And for the first time, I whisper something into the room.
"If I could write the world again… where would I start?"
I hold the pen now.
I don't know why, but something in me believes it.
That I could do anything with this pen. That it isn't just ink and plastic, but something else.
Something waiting.
It doesn't glow. Doesn't hum.
But the weight of it—it's wrong, or maybe it's too right. Like holding a promise that hasn't been spoken yet.
I go to my room.
The house is dim, the air thick with quiet. No one's called my name. No one's asked where I've been.
I change clothes.
My usual: a plain white shirt and old sweatpants. Soft from too many washes. Faded at the knees.
I don't know why I always choose these, but I do. Maybe because they don't ask anything from me.
The pen is still in my hand. I haven't put it down once.
I sit on the bed, notebook open on my lap.
Pages full of nothing. Scribbles. Half-formed thoughts. Homework I didn't finish.
All of it feels far away now.
I look at the blank page.
The pen hovers just above it.
And for the first time, I whisper something into the room.
"If I could write the world again… where would I start?"
Before I could write anything more, I heard her voice.
Muffled. Sharp. Familiar.
"Buy me another beer."
I froze.
She was in the living room now, not alone.
A man's voice followed—low, slurred, laughing too easily. I didn't recognize it.
But I knew them—how they sounded together.
Too close.
Too sweet in all the wrong ways.
I left the apple on the desk and slipped the pen into my pocket.
Outside, the streetlights flickered.
The air was warm and smelled like rust and old oil. I walked fast to the nearest store, handed over the money without looking the vendor in the eye.
When I came back, the door was locked.
I turned the knob once. Twice.
Nothing.
I knocked—quietly at first, then harder.
No answer.
Just the thud of movement, a sudden laugh, a voice too close to hers.
I sat down on the concrete step. The beer bottle still in the plastic bag, heavy in my hand.
When I was young, I didn't understand.
I thought the locked door just meant she was tired. Or asleep. Or angry.
But now—
Now that I'm older, stuck in a child's body, I know.
I know exactly what's happening behind that door.
And the worst part is—I can't stop it.
I can't even look away.
I left the beer at the door.
Didn't bother knocking again.
Didn't call her name.
She wouldn't come out. Not for me.
The hallway light buzzed above me as I walked down the stairs, past the broken gate and into the dark.
The playground wasn't far—just a patch of rusted metal and sand the color of ash.
The swings creaked softly in the wind.
The slide was chipped at the edges.
Everything was still.
I sat on the farthest bench. The one by the broken seesaw.
The sky above was dark, thick with clouds. No stars tonight. Just the dim glow of windows from faraway homes where mothers stayed and doors didn't lock their daughters out.
I pulled out my notebook and the pen, without thinking.
My hand moved before my mind caught up.
A word. A sentence. A longing.
"I wish I was somewhere safe."
The pen sparked—just faintly.
Like a gasp.
And the world around me blurred.
The wind stilled.
The metal stopped creaking.
Everything went quiet.
For a moment, the playground melted into light.
And when the light faded—
—I was sitting on a different bench.
Still alone.
But the air was warm.
The night smelled like clean rain.
There were flowers nearby, and distant lights—soft, golden, like fireflies dancing over water.
I stood slowly. My heart thudding.
The playground was gone.
The streets were gone.
The apartment, the locked door, the man's voice—all gone.
Only the pen remained in my hand.
And the page still open.
The words glowing faintly before they faded back into ink.
I turned in place.
The bench behind me was carved wood, smooth and clean.
Not rusted. Not broken.
The grass under my feet was soft, almost glowing, dotted with tiny white flowers that swayed even though the air was still.
The sky above wasn't like home.
It was violet, stretched wide, stars shifting slowly—like they were breathing.
It was beautiful.
Too beautiful.
And then I knew.
This wasn't just a safe place.
It was mine.
A world shaped by the wish I'd written.
No noise. No cold.
No locked doors.
No beer bottles.
No strangers in my mother's laugh.
Only quiet.
Only stillness.
My fingers tightened around the pen.
Then I heard it—soft wings slicing the air.
She appeared mid-air, unfolding from a flicker of golden dust.
Not glowing this time.
Not smiling either.
Just watching.
"You used it," she said.
I nodded slowly. "I didn't mean to."
She landed on the branch of a tree nearby. The bark twisted gently beneath her feet, as if alive.
"No one ever means to, at first."
I looked around again—at the sky, the trees, the silence.
"Did I… create this?"
"In a way," she said. "This place comes from what you needed. But you gave it shape. Words have weight now. And the pen remembers."
I swallowed. "Is this real?"
"It's yours. That makes it real enough."
I sat down again, the grass cool beneath me.
"Can I stay here forever?"
The fairy tilted her head. "You could try."
She looked up at the sky. For a moment, her glow flickered.
"But stories don't stay still forever. Not even the ones we write."
I stayed.
For a while, I let myself believe.
There was no hunger in this world.
No cold floor.
No locked doors or muffled voices.
Here, the air tasted clean. The sky was always soft.
And when I imagined a blanket, it appeared, folded neatly on the bench beside me.
When I thought of music, the wind carried it—gentle, like lullabies from long ago.
The fairy stayed near. Sometimes perching. Sometimes vanishing into light.
She didn't speak much. Just watched.
I should've been happy.
But something pressed against the edges of the stillness.
Something too quiet.
No birds.
No insects.
No footsteps except mine.
One morning—if it could even be called morning—I whispered,
"Let there be a house."
And one appeared.
Small, with windows like blinking eyes.
Inside, a bed. A cup of warm milk. Books that smelled like dreams.
But the books were empty.
Every page was blank.
I went outside again and whispered, "Let there be a friend."
And there she was—a girl my age, smiling too wide, waving from the trees.
She sat beside me on the grass.
"Do you like it here?" she asked.
I nodded.
She smiled. But her eyes didn't blink.
Not once.
And when I turned away for a moment—just to look at the sky—then looked back…
she was gone.
Like she had never been there at all.
That night, I found the fairy waiting by the edge of the clearing.
"Is this place broken?" I asked.
She looked at me a long time before answering.
"It's not broken," she said. "It's just... yours. And you haven't written the whole story yet."