Ava's morning began with the familiar ping of disappointment.
Her inbox—her daily roulette wheel of hope—held nothing new except three overdue invoices, each one highlighted in a shade of red she now associated with failure. She clicked them open one by one, staring at the polite yet robotic reminders: We're following up on payment…Processing delays…Apologies for the inconvenience…
Inconvenience.That word had become the wallpaper of her life.
She exhaled through her nose, long and slow, willing herself not to spiral before noon. Freelancers were supposed to have freedom—wasn't that the promise? Yet here she was, chained to uncertainty, trapped in a cycle of "later." Pay later. Approve later. Success later.
A soft buzz lit up her screen.Client Call — 10 Minutes Early
Ava straightened her posture, smoothed her hair, and clicked "Join Meeting."
The moment the camera turned on, she knew it would go wrong.
The client—arms crossed, brows pinched—wasted no time. They didn't like her draft. They didn't like her tone. They didn't like the direction. They didn't like that she'd taken initiative. Her explanations dissolved under their sighs.
By the time the call ended, her confidence felt like a cracked plate someone had dropped but pretended was still intact.
She reached for her coffee only to realize she hadn't made any.
Instead, she opened her socials—her worst habit, her secret punishment—and there he was: the writer everyone seemed to adore lately. He'd just announced another book deal. Another speaking gig. Another glossy photo in a bookstore, smiling like success was as effortless as breathing.
Ava's stomach tightened.
She didn't hate him. She hated that she could recognize his dreams coming true before she could even admit her own out loud.
Scrolling felt like walking through a gallery of finished masterpieces while holding a pencil she wasn't sure she deserved to use.
She shut her laptop.
For a moment, the apartment was too quiet. The kind of quiet that reminded her she lived alone, worked alone, tried alone. There was no one to tell her she wasn't failing. No one to argue with her inner critic. No one to say this was normal, temporary, survivable.
She pressed her palms to her face.
"I'm trying," she whispered into her hands. "I'm trying so hard."
But her voice sounded small in the stillness.
Today, frustration clung to her like a heavy coat she couldn't shrug off.Today, yearning pressed against her ribs—the yearning to be seen, to be good, to be chosen.And today, the invisible struggle of freelancers everywhere sat beside her like an uninvited companion.
Still, beneath the ache, a tiny ember glowed.
A quiet insistence: There has to be more than this.
She didn't know it yet, but this was the moment her story began—not with triumph, but with truth. The raw, unpolished kind she never posted online.
The kind no one sees until the final chapter is written.