The morning sun was slowly creeping through the narrow blinds of Nadine Oswalt's bedroom, casting long, delicate stripes across the scattered pages of notebooks, loose sheets, and scraps of paper littering the small wooden desk. The room smelled faintly of coffee, ink, and the faintly sweet scent of her lavender candle that she always lit while writing. Nadine was sitting cross-legged on the floor, laptop balanced on her knees, one hand hovering over the keyboard, the other nervously tucking a well-worn pen behind her ear. Around her, posters of light novels, manga, and anime clung stubbornly to the pale walls—some peeling slightly at the corners—reminding her of worlds she longed to enter and create herself. Her bookshelf sagged under the weight of books she had read a dozen times, each spine marked with sticky notes, sketches, and little reminders of what had inspired her.
She exhaled slowly, watching the blinking cursor on the blank page of her first light novel chapter. It seemed almost alive, daring her to write, daring her to fail. "What if no one ever reads this?" she thought, biting the tip of her pen. "What if it disappears into nothing, just like the last idea I abandoned?" Her heart was pounding so hard that she could feel it in her throat, yet beneath the fear, there was a spark of determination, fragile but persistent. "But if I don't try… I'll never know."
With trembling fingers, she pressed "Publish." The page refreshed, and the notifications appeared: Views: 0 | Likes: 0. A pang of disappointment shot through her chest, but she forced herself to smile. She leaned back, letting her gaze wander around the room, noting the little messes that had become part of her creative environment—the scattered notebooks, the pencil holder tipping precariously to one side, the faint outline of doodles on the wall. Everything here was a testament to her passion, her persistence, and her dreams.
The soft hum of the laptop was the only sound besides the occasional creak of the apartment floorboards. She could hear the faint chatter of neighbors in the hallway, the rattle of dishes from the apartment above, and the distant rumble of a city that seemed unaware of her tiny corner of creativity. Yet in that space, Nadine felt she had a universe entirely her own. Her characters were moving in her mind, their voices whispering through her consciousness, their emotions vivid, their actions precise. She could see the protagonist of her story, a young adventurer navigating a labyrinth of intrigue and magic, pausing in the flickering candlelight of an imaginary library. She could hear his thoughts, his doubts, his small triumphs, as if he existed somewhere just beyond the reach of her fingertips.
Nadine opened one of her worn notebooks and traced a finger over the lines of messy, ink-stained notes. Dialogues half-formed, plot twists barely sketched, settings detailed only in tiny scribbles—these were the scaffolding of her dreams. She had chosen the pseudonym YUMEWRITE for herself on StoryBloom, a name that whispered her aspirations and the worlds she longed to create. It felt almost sacred to post her thoughts into the digital expanse, into a platform where thousands of young authors fought for attention, where a single comment could lift her spirits or crush her hope entirely.
She remembered scrolling through StoryBloom the previous night, looking at the top authors' profiles with envy and awe. Olivia Donovan, for example—popular, polished, confident—seemed untouchable. She had thousands of followers, pages of glowing comments, and every new chapter celebrated as a masterpiece. Nadine had perhaps ten readers at most, and most days her comment section was silent. Even so, she felt a quiet pride. Every word she typed was a small rebellion against the invisible voices telling her she wasn't good enough.
She stretched her arms above her head, feeling the stiffness in her shoulders, then leaned forward to begin drafting the next scene. Her pen scratched across the notebook as if it had its own life, following the rhythm of her thoughts. She imagined the next plot twist, a subtle conversation between her characters that would reveal hidden motives and secret alliances. Each phrase was carefully weighed, each word selected with precision, as though the act of writing itself could transform the world around her.
Suddenly, a soft ping drew her attention back to the laptop screen. Her eyes widened, and her pulse quickened. "Someone… someone read it?" she whispered, leaning closer.
A single comment had appeared:
"Interesting start. Keep writing."
It was brief, unadorned, and yet it carried more weight than any long critique could. Nadine felt warmth creeping up her neck and into her chest, a small flame of hope igniting where doubt had previously lingered. She typed a careful reply, thanking the reader, her fingers trembling slightly as they moved across the keys. Leaning back, she let herself breathe deeply for the first time that morning, feeling lighter, as if the tiny spark of recognition had lifted a weight she hadn't even realized she was carrying.
She glanced at the clock. Time had passed almost unnoticed; the city outside her window was fully awake now, the distant hum of traffic blending with the chirping of birds perched on the nearby trees. Her apartment, her little room, her sanctuary of paper and ink, seemed more alive, more purposeful. "Maybe this is just the beginning," she thought, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Maybe tomorrow I'll reach someone else. Maybe someone will care."
Her thoughts drifted briefly to her parents, who would probably roll their eyes if they saw her now. Franck, with his practical insistence on studying for exams, and Nadia, with her quiet disapproval, could never understand the worlds she was building. "They just don't get it… maybe they never will," Nadine mused. But she pushed the thought aside, focusing on the present, on the act of creation itself, which for now was enough.
She opened another notebook, flipping to a page filled with sketches, dialogue notes, and half-finished storylines. Her pen hovered, then began moving across the page again. Characters, plots, small details of setting—they all spilled out of her mind like a river, uncontained and alive. The words themselves seemed to pulse with energy, taking shape, breathing life into the paper.
Hours passed unnoticed. The hum of the laptop, the occasional scratch of her pen, and the distant city sounds blended into a quiet symphony of creativity. Nadine was completely immersed, the outside world fading until only she, her characters, and StoryBloom existed. Her fingers hovered again over the keyboard, preparing to type the next line for her chapter.
"Tomorrow, I will write more. I will keep going… no matter what," she promised herself. And for the first time in a long while, Nadine truly believed it. She was not yet famous, not yet recognized, but she was taking her first steps toward something that felt infinite—toward becoming YUMEWRITE, toward building the worlds she had always imagined, toward reaching anyone who might someday care about her stories.
The morning sun was high now, spilling golden light across the room, and Nadine finally allowed herself to lean back fully, closing her eyes. For the first time, she felt a quiet, unshakable certainty: this was her dream, and she was ready to chase it, no matter the obstacles, no matter the distance.