The next morning started like every other one — cold, quiet, and far too early for someone who had nothing to wake up for.
The sunlight slipped through the cracks of my curtains, landing right on my face, and I groaned, rolling over to grab my phone. Ten percent battery. Again.
No new texts. No missed calls.
Just the same silence I'd gotten used to.
I hadn't heard from the guy — Adrian, he'd said his name was — since the subway.
Part of me wondered if I had imagined the whole thing, or maybe I'd dreamt it out of exhaustion.
But the $1500 sitting in my account said otherwise.
The next two days blurred together.
I stayed inside, half-writing, half-thinking about him.
I'd start one story, stop halfway, and then open another — old habits dying slow. But for the first time, it didn't feel pointless.
Then, on the third morning, I woke to the faint buzz of a notification. I grabbed my phone, already expecting another "payment overdue" reminder.
Except it wasn't.
> From: [email protected]
Subject: Internship Opportunity — Blake's Media Publishing
I froze.
Blake's Media.
The name rang in my head like an echo I couldn't place.
I tapped it open with shaky fingers.
Dear Ms. Amara Jazmyne,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been shortlisted for an internship position at Blake's Media Publishing. Your creative samples have been reviewed, and we believe your unique storytelling voice could be a valuable addition to our editorial team.
Please report to our downtown office on Monday, 9:00 a.m., for orientation.
Kind regards,
HR Department
Blake's Media Publishing Group
For a solid minute, I just stared at the screen.
I hadn't applied for anything. I hadn't even submitted any of my stories to a publisher before.
So how—?
I rubbed my eyes, thinking maybe I'd misread something. But no, it was real. My name. My email. My stories.
And then… that word again. Blake.
The name sparked something faint in my memory — the subway, the notepad, the boy with the blue eyes.
Adrian Blake.
I blinked, sitting up straighter.
No. That was stupid. Coincidence.
Blake was a common name. It wasn't like he'd said he owned a publishing company.
He'd been wearing a fast-food uniform, for crying out loud.
He couldn't possibly be connected to that Blake.
Still, the thought lingered, heavy and persistent.
Could he have sent it?
I shook my head, laughing softly at myself.
Get real, I muttered. You're not the main character in one of your stories.
But my chest still felt tight — a mix of fear, excitement, and something dangerously close to hope.
By the time I set my phone down, I had read the email at least ten times.
Maybe it was an accident. Maybe they got the wrong person.
But maybe — just maybe — it wasn't.
For the first time in a long while, I wanted to believe something good could happen to me.
So I decided: mistake or not, I was going.
Because if life was handing me a chapter I hadn't written, I wasn't about to turn the page without reading it.