"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Ethan Cole."
The words hung in the air with all the weight of a feather. The café's stage was barely a stage at all — just a platform raised a foot above the floor, framed by yellowed fairy lights. A scattering of people clapped, half-hearted, more out of politeness than anticipation.
Ethan stepped up, his manuscript trembling slightly in his hands. His throat felt dry, his heart unsteady. Once, the thought of reading his words aloud had filled him with fire. Now, it felt like begging.
He adjusted the microphone, his voice low. "Uh… thank you. I'll just share a short piece tonight."
A couple in the back whispered to each other. Someone stirred sugar into their coffee with a noisy spoon. The room was full but not listening. Ethan opened his manuscript, hands damp against the paper.
> "Sometimes," he began, voice faltering, "the stories we tell ourselves are the ones that destroy us…"
He read on, trying to pour himself into the words, but his voice sounded foreign even to him — hollow, tired, too fragile.
When he finished, there was a polite sprinkle of applause. Nothing more.
"Any questions for Ethan?" the host asked cheerfully, passing the mic toward the audience.
For a moment, silence. Then a man in a denim jacket raised his hand. His voice carried an edge of mockery. "Yeah, uh, aren't you the guy who accused Adrian Gray of stealing your book? What was it called again?"
A ripple of laughter spread. Ethan's stomach dropped.
"I—" he swallowed, forcing himself to stand tall. "I didn't accuse. I stated the truth. What happened was—"
The man cut in, shaking his head. "Come on, man. Everyone's read the articles. Adrian Gray is a genius. You're just bitter you didn't make it first."
The laughter grew louder this time. Ethan's chest burned.
"That's not true," he said, the words sharper than he intended. "I wrote that story before he did. I have drafts, notebooks, everything—"
"Then where are they?" another voice called out. "Why didn't your publisher back you?"
Ethan faltered. His mouth opened but no words came. The silence that followed was more damning than anything he could have said.
The host stepped in quickly, trying to smooth over the tension. "Thank you, Ethan, for sharing your work tonight. Let's give him another hand."
The applause was thinner this time, forced. Ethan stepped down from the platform, every step heavy with shame.
He took a seat in the corner, away from the others, nursing a lukewarm coffee. He overheard snippets — "pathetic," "delusional," "poor guy." Each word cut deeper than the last.
And then, a voice. Gentle, almost kind. "I liked it."
He turned. A young woman with dark curls stood by his table, clutching a notebook to her chest. She looked nervous. "Your reading, I mean. The words felt… real. Raw. I haven't heard anything like that in a while."
Ethan stared at her, searching her face for mockery, for pity. But her eyes were earnest, wide with something like admiration.
"Thank you," he said softly, though the words felt like ash in his mouth.
She smiled, shifting on her feet. "If you ever do another reading, I'd love to hear more."
Before he could respond, she was gone, swept up in the crowd.
For the briefest second, Ethan felt a flicker of something — hope, maybe. But as the café emptied and the laughter of his hecklers lingered in his ears, the flicker dimmed.
He stared down at his manuscript, pages smudged by his damp fingers. Once, these words had meant everything. Now, they were just echoes.
And no one wanted to hear them.