Okay, Agnetha… we think your story is pretty good. But we're not looking for this kind of genre right now. It's too fictional. We want something relatable. Something people can connect with. Sorry. For the last time, we can't accept your story."
Okay.
That was my conversation with a publisher's admin.
No small talk.
My name is Agnetha Lowe. you can call me "Agnetha" or whatever you want I'm twenty-one years old. I live in California, San Diego, in an apartment—well, more like a housing complex. I'm a freelancer. And I really, really love writing. Fiction. Fantasy. Magic Stories that usually only exist inside my head.
Mom says my imagination is really wild. too wild.
Publishers say that's the problem.
This is my old laptop. Thick. Heavy. Clearly past its prime. Dark blue—bought it on impulse because it was on sale. Secondhand, yeah, but tough. This laptop keeps me company whenever I'm bored, burned out, or just want to escape reality for a while.
My hair?
Brown. A fail. Seriously. Oh God
I found a cheap salon. They said it was "safe."
Well. This is the result.
So now I just tie it up in a messy bun every day. If anyone asks? My answer's simple: whatever. Not my problem. And not your problem.
I usually write at a small café near my apartment. I sit in the corner, open my laptop, and play random music. I've never had a playlist. I don't even really listen to the songs—it just helps drown out the noise of the world.
My favorite drink?
Cold coffee.
Not cold because of ice. Not because it sat in the fridge. But because it was left alone. Forgotten. Somehow, it tastes better that way.
Honestly, for a writer, I don't read that many books. Thick books I've actually finished? Probably not even ten. Six, maybe. Or… I don't know. And yet, I love writing. Especially historical fiction and fantasy.
I don't really like relatable stories.
Real life is already relatable enough.
Favorite food? Anything.
As long as it's not bananas.
I open a new document.
The working title is simple. Not poetic. Not serious either. I just need something at the top of the page so the cursor stops blinking at me like it's judging my life choices.
The main character's name is Elena Grant.
I never write the year exactly. Not because I forget, but because I don't feel like dealing with numbers. All that matters is the era—somewhere around the 1800s. A time when long dresses weren't a fashion choice but a rule. A time when women were supposed to sit still, not stand in the middle of a battlefield.
Elena Grant is definitely not that kind of woman.
Her skin is tan, sun-kissed from spending too much time under the harsh midday sun. Not the sheltered skin of a noblewoman hiding beneath silk umbrellas and gloves. Elena is outside more often than she's inside the palace. Her hair is long and wavy, usually tied up messily whenever she trains. Her eyes are green—a detail that appeared in my head from the very beginning, without me ever consciously choosing it.
People call her Lady Grant.
With respect.
With distance.
With their voices slightly restrained.
But her family—or at least the few who remain—call her Elena.
She is the princess of the Kingdom of Grant. The only child. The sole heir. The kingdom's one great hope. And honestly, probably its most consistent source of trouble.
Elena grew up surrounded by too many rules and not enough air. The way she sat was regulated. The way she spoke was corrected. Even the way she looked at people had its own version of "proper."
And Elena hated all of it.
She escaped whenever she could—into the back gardens, the stables, the villages beyond the kingdom walls. She knew the faces of common folk better than those of the nobles who shared meals with her in the grand hall every day.
She listened to their stories.
About crops that failed.
About taxes that crushed them.
About children sent to war before they were old enough to understand what death meant.
That's where Elena learned one simple thing:
a kingdom is more than a crown.
She didn't learn how to fight because she wanted to be a hero. At first, she was just bored. One afternoon, an old soldier caught her holding a training spear and laughed, treating it like a joke. Then, for reasons known only to him, he challenged her to wrestle. Just for fun, he said.
Elena accepted.
A few minutes later, the man was flat on the ground. Knocked out. Gasping for air. Pride completely shattered. After that day, no one ever called her a spoiled princess again.
She trained with a bow until her arms shook. Practiced with a spear until her palms hardened with calluses. She fell. She bled. But she always got back up.
When war finally came, it felt inevitable.
The Kingdom of Grant went to war against Highstone. A large-scale war. An open war. Highstone had cannons. Grant did not.
And even though Grant lost in terms of technology, they won through strategy. Through Elena. Through decisions made at exactly the right moment.
I write that part quickly. My fingers move faster than my thoughts. Paragraphs stack up on the screen. I pause only to sip my cold coffee—cold because it's been sitting there too long.
My phone vibrates.
Junia's name appears on the screen.
I sigh before answering. It's not that I don't like Junia. I do. It's just… the topic. It's always the same.
"Hellooo," Junia says cheerfully.
"Hey," I reply, rolling my chair slightly away from the table.
"What are you doing?"
"Writing."
"Nice. Oh, I wanted to tell you—"
I already know. I could predict the third word of her sentence with disturbing accuracy.
"—about the bananas on my farm—"
I close my eyes.
"Yeah, Jun," I say quickly. "Bananas."
Junia is a banana farmer. Seriously. And somehow, every time we meet or talk on the phone, the conversation always circles back to that. Always. As if the world consists of just her, me, and bananas.
"So listen, Cavendish bananas and King bananas are totally different," she says excitedly. "Even the texture—"
"Jun," I cut in. "I'm at a café."
"Perfect timing! Did you know bananas go really well with coffee—"
I almost choke.
"No. I don't. And I don't want to," I say honestly.
Junia laughs. "What's your problem with bananas?"
I look at my laptop screen, at the paragraph describing Elena standing on a battlefield. Far. Very far away from bananas.
"I'm sick of them," I say. "Just hearing the word makes me nauseous."
"But bananas are—"
"Junia."
"Yes?"
"If you say the word 'banana' one more time, I swear I'll hang up. For real this time."
There's a two-second pause.
"Okay," she says. "Sorry."
I exhale in relief.
Five seconds later—
"But seriously, this harvest—"
Click.
I end the call.
I know it's rude. But sometimes, for the sake of sanity, you have to be a little cruel.
I turn back to my screen and start typing again. Then I stop—and this might be weird—I add a single line, as if I'm talking directly to whoever's reading this.
If you've made it this far, congratulations.
You now know two things about me:
one, I write war stories;
two, I hate bananas.
I can imagine a few readers raising an eyebrow. Why is this so random?
Yeah. Life is random too.
I go back to Elena Grant. To her standing among her soldiers. To how she feels more at home beneath the sun than behind palace curtains.
My phone vibrates again. A message from Junia.
Junia: Im so sorry Agnetha, i regret it
Junia: but did you know bananas can—
I don't reply.
Instead, I add one small sentence to my document. Not about Elena. About repetition. About topics that keep coming back, no matter how far you try to run from them.
I realize my life is made of the same things, over and over again. Publisher rejections. An old laptop. Cold coffee. And, unfortunately, bananas.
I delete that sentence.
Never mind.
Not everything needs to be written.
I return to Elena Grant. To a world I can control.
Or at least, I think I can.
I only realized my coffee was gone when I stirred the glass again.
Pure reflex. Even though there was clearly nothing left inside. The spoon hit the glass—cling—and I stopped.
Empty.
Completely empty.
It didn't feel like I'd been sitting there that long.
Turns out, two hours.
I glanced at the corner of my laptop screen. The time made me pause for a second. Two hours. Same chair. Same position. Typing without really thinking. No wonder my head felt heavy—though not tired. More like… full.
I stood up and left my table with my laptop half-open. I always do that. Leave my stuff like I trust the world a little too much. Maybe because this place is crowded. Crowded in the modern way—lots of people, but everyone's busy with their own lives. Safe.
"Another order Ma'am?" the same barista asked.
"Cappuccino again," I said. "One shot. Same as before."
"Not a fan of bitter coffee?" he smiled.
I laughed softly. "I like coffee. I just don't like regret."
For some reason, I added, "And fish and chips please."
I almost never eat that. Almost never to the point where I surprised myself. But I felt like it. One of those impulsive decisions that don't need a reason.
"The fish and chips are already made," he said. "Do you want them reheated or just served as is?"
I paused.
Reheated… again?
"Reheat them," I said finally. I didn't want to overthink something small.
While preparing my order, he added, "Pretty busy today, huh?"
"Yeah, i think so" I said, glancing around. "Feels like in 2025, people keep looking for places just to sit quietly."
He chuckled. "What do you do for work?"
"Freelance," I replied. "I'm a writer."
"Oh, cool."
That word people always say. The tone is what changes.
"What are you writing now?"
"Not fantasy," I said. "Historical fiction."
"Oh?"
"A story about someone, some girl" I continued. "Her name is Elena."
The answer came out too smoothly. Honestly, I didn't even know why that name appeared in my head this week. It just did. Stuck there. Like it had always been there and I'd only just noticed.
I took my order and went back to my table. The fish and chips were warm, the coffee still faintly steaming. I put my headphones back on and played a random song. I didn't even know the language. Didn't matter. I just needed noise to keep the outside world away.
I kept writing.
Chapter twenty-one.
My fingers moved faster than usual. I wasn't forcing anything. The words flowed, like I was copying something that already existed in my mind. I stopped after a few pages.
"Okay," I muttered. "Not bad."
I reread everything from the top. Slowly. Chapter one. Two. Three. Four. Four full chapters. And honestly—I was happy. It felt different. Not because it was better, but because it felt… right. Calmer. More grounded.
I thought, maybe this one will get accepted.
Because it wasn't fantasy.
Because it wasn't strange worlds.
Because it felt real.
I was halfway through chapter two, right at the part leading into chapter three, when something made me stop.
The text… moved.
Not the screen.
Not my hands.
The letters.
They rotated slowly, like a small whirlpool. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough to make something feel wrong.
I blinked. Once. Twice. I took off my headphones.
"This is because I've been here too long," I said quietly to myself. "Too much coffee."
I tilted the laptop screen slightly.
The letters were still spinning.
That was when I felt it. Not panic. Not fear. Just a strange sensation—like being watched, but not by a person.
Like my writing… was aware.
I stopped there.
Didn't keep writing.
Didn't close the laptop either.
I just sat there, staring at the screen, my mind—for the first time in a while—not knowing where to go next.
The words didn't just start spinning again.
This time, everything followed.
The letters on my laptop screen no longer rotated slowly like before. They spun faster now, crashing into one another, overlapping, forming a tight little vortex that grew denser by the second. And yet—strangely—I didn't panic. Not even a little.
I sat there, staring at the screen with a flat expression. Not empty. Not afraid. More like… oh. Okay.
Like I was witnessing something that should've been terrifying, but my brain simply refused to treat it that way.
I knew this wasn't normal.
I understood that.
But the understanding never reached my body.
It felt like there was a thin layer separating what I saw from what I felt. My head grew light. Warm. As if someone had quietly switched off the panic button inside me. I even caught myself thinking, maybe I'm just tired. Or maybe it's the coffee.
Even though I knew—it wasn't.
My chair began to rise.
Not suddenly. Not violently. Slowly. Gently. As if the floor beneath it had forgotten its responsibility to gravity. I stayed seated. I didn't grab onto anything. Didn't jump. My body was strangely calm, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
I was floating.
And somehow—I wasn't falling.
The legs of the chair no longer touched the floor, yet I wasn't swaying. I was stable. Still. Almost comfortable. I turned my head to the side, and only then did I realize—
I wasn't alone.
The people in the café were floating too.
Tables lifted. Chairs followed. Coffee cups hovered in midair without spilling a single drop. Some people remained seated, some stood frozen in place, all of them floating with expressions that were… ordinary. No screaming. No panic.
Like this was part of a routine I had simply forgotten.
Then the light appeared.
Not from above.
Not from the lamps.
From my laptop. Yes, my old laptop.
The light poured out of the screen, slipping through the spinning letters and spreading outward, slowly filling the space. Its color was brown—but not a normal brown. An odd one. Warm, yet washed out. Almost identical to the failed brown of my hair. Ugh, i dont want to talk about that right now.
A color that looked like a mistake.
The light grew brighter. Wider. Until the entire café was submerged in it. I remained seated. Floating. Calm. As though my body no longer had any opinion about what was happening.
And then—
Everything descended.
Not a fall.
A descent.
Gentle. Like someone lowering the volume of the world.
My chair touched the floor again. Tables settled. People returned to their places. The light vanished without a trace. I blinked once.
The world looked… normal.
Or at least—quiet.
I looked down. My hands were still there. My chair was the same. The small wooden table sat in front of me. I took a breath, and the air filled my lungs easily. For a moment, I almost convinced myself it had all been a hallucination.
Until I really looked around.
The café… wasn't a café.
The tables weren't modern. The wood was rough, thick, with simple carvings on the legs. The chairs had no soft backs. The lights weren't electric—more like lanterns.
And the people.
They weren't wearing jackets, hoodies, or work shirts anymore. They wore old-fashioned clothes. Long dresses. Loose shirts. Vests. Their hair was tied back, braided, styled in ways that felt deeply—
Familiar.
Familiar in the way I imagined the 1800s.
My stomach tightened.
I turned back to my table.
The fish and chips were gone.
In their place sat bread. Simple bread. Round. Slightly hard on the outside. My glass was no longer glass—it was wood. And inside it, not coffee.
Water.
I swallowed.
My laptop—
My laptop was gone.
Instead, there was a book.
A plain notebook. No title. Slightly yellowed pages. But it was positioned strangely—opened upside down, standing like a laptop, propped up by the wooden cup, as if someone had tried to imitate something that no longer existed.
I didn't dare touch it.
I lifted my head and looked at the people around me. Their faces… I knew them. Not because I'd met them—but because I'd imagined them. Every line, every expression, lived somewhere in my mind. I had written them.
And still—I didn't scream. I did not, for sure
I was just confused. Deeply confused. The kind of confusion that pressed against your chest while leaving your thoughts blank.
"What is this…" I whispered.
In the farthest corner of the room stood a large mirror.
Beautiful. Its dark wooden frame was carved with intricate details. It stood tall, as if it had always belonged there. The room's light reflected softly on its surface.
I stared at it.
And for a moment, I forgot everything else.
"Please," I breathed. "Is that Elena?"
The figure in the mirror stood calmly. Tan skin—clearly shaped by long hours under the sun. Brown hair, long and slightly wavy. The face—
Exactly the one that lived in my head every time I wrote.
I stood up.
I lifted my hands. They weren't my usual hands. The skin was rougher. Stronger. I touched my hair. No messy bun. This hair was alive. Heavy. Real.
I stepped closer to the mirror.
The dress. The clothes. Every detail was exactly right.
I met my own gaze in the reflection—and that was when it finally clicked.
That wasn't Elena standing there.
That was me.
Or rather—
"Oh Lord," I whispered, my voice barely holding together.
"I'm Elena."
And there, in front of that mirror, in a world that was no longer mine, one simple thought surfaced in my mind:
I wrote this.
And now… I have to live it