There wasn't a single moment that made him feel like a writer. No glowing praise. No big paycheck. No signing event or reader running up with tears in their eyes.
Instead, it was the third email.
The first story he had sold had earned him ₹300. The second got no replies. But the third one—a story about a boy who wrote letters he never sent—was accepted. The editor called it "haunting." She said, "It lingered."
That word stayed with him.
Aarav read the message twice. Then again. Then closed his laptop and didn't move for ten minutes. His tea went cold. A drop of it stained the cheap tablecloth Yuvaan had gifted him with a joke: "So your tears have somewhere to land."
He wasn't crying, but he felt full. Full in a way that didn't need anyone to see it.
Later that evening, while washing his plate, Aarav said aloud to no one, "I think I'm a writer now."
He didn't expect the walls to cheer.
But he felt it.
He spent the next day writing. Then the next. He stopped checking his views. He didn't even tell Yuvaan about the third publication right away. It felt too fragile to share.
He bought a better pen. One that didn't skip.
He printed out the story and tacked it to his wall above the bed. Right beside the failed entrance exam result. Not as revenge. Just as reminder:
One closed door doesn't mean you stop knocking elsewhere.
Some nights, he still missed her. Niya. The way she tucked her hair when she read. The way her eyes softened when she smiled. He never told her, but he wrote her into every story.
Sometimes as the one who forgot. Sometimes as the one who remembered everything.
And in those stories, Aarav didn't need to be seen to feel real.
He just had to write.
And now, he did.