I was in my office, surrounded by half-finished drafts and cold coffee, trying to force a new idea into existence. Being an author meant pressure — constant pressure — and my readers always expected the best. No, not expected… demanded.
"So maybe the protagonist dies in a plane crash," I muttered aloud, pacing. "No, no, too predictable. Maybe something more… emotional like suicide."
"Don't you think that's a bit much for your innocent character?"
Raymond's voice made me jump.
My ever-so-playful, ever-so-supportive best friend leaned against the doorframe like he owned my office.
"How long have you been standing there?" I asked, squinting at him.
"Two hours," he said with a grin that told me he wasn't joking — or maybe he was. With Ray, you never really knew.
"Ray, please. Be serious. This is my office, not a comedy stage." I waved my hands dramatically, looking like a woman spiralling into creative madness.
"Okay, okay." He raised his hands. "I've been out here long enough to hear you burn your brain out trying to create an idea."
He stepped closer and placed his hands gently on my shoulders. "Aubrey, breathe. You're overworking again."
"I'm an author, Raymond." I sighed. "Brainstorming is literally my job. I have to come up with something good enough to keep my readers hooked, so forgive me if it sounds like overworking but that's how it should be."
"Is it, though?" He lifted a brow. "You're the best-selling author I know. People adore you."
"That's exactly the problem." I threw my hands up. "They want another big banger. No mistakes. No fillers. So tell me — what fate should my protagonist meet? Plane crash or something more heartbreaking?"
"Aubrey…" Ray looked at me with that serious expression he only used for rare occasions. "I've read every story you've ever written. I'm your number-one fan by the way. But I have to ask—why do your books always end in tragedy?"
I paused, then turned away.
"Because I don't believe in happily-ever-afters. They don't exist. My stories are based on the reality I see, not fairytales."
Ray exhaled slowly. "Wow. Deep." Then he gave a soft laugh. "And yeah… only you can decide the right ending to your story."
"you make a valid point," I said, smiling. "And I think I just found the perfect one."
"But why the rush?" he asked. "Didn't you release a book last month? And last I checked, that story is doing amazing."
"Well, I'm not releasing this one now—"
He cut me off instantly. "Then what's the hurry?"
"I just want to be prepared." I shrugged. "Besides, it's staying unpublished and safe in my laptop until I feel the time is right."
Ray folded his arms. "You know what I think? You need a vacation. Like, a real one. Sun. Sleep. Zero writing."
"No, I don't—"
"Shhhh." He placed a finger in the air dramatically. "Go home. Think about it."
He paused.
"And send me the new story draft. Pleaseeee."
I rolled my eyes, defeated. "Fine. I'll forward it so you can give me your thoughts."
"YASSS!" he shouted, fists in the air. "And please, sweetie, think about that vacation!"
"I'm not sure I need it," I said as I walked out the office door. "But… I'll consider it."
"Trust me, you do!" Ray yelled after me, loud enough for the whole building to hear.
I kept walking until I stepped out into the sunlight, leaving the office — and my overworked brain — behind. I took out my phone, booked a cab through the app, and stood there waiting.
As the cab pulled up, I sank into the seat, hoping for a quiet ride. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, a strange glint in his eyes.
"I saw your new story draft," he said slowly. "But… did she really deserve that fate?"
A chill ran down my spine.