Fuck. It’s 2am again. Staring at the ceiling like it owes me money. Someone — a someone I used to be, a real goddamn square — decided years ago that “this thing,” this whole writing schtick, was it. My big move. My raison d'être, you know? Like, after twenty years of explaining Shakespeare to teenagers who’d rather be anywhere else, I was gonna be the next big thing. Or even just a *thing*. A small thing. A published thing. So I wrote the fucking book. Nights, weekends, coffee-fueled manic sprints after freelancing all day to pay the rent on this shoebox. You know the drill – graphic design one day, dog walking the next, maybe a few hours of transcribing medical records if I’m lucky. No benefits, obviously. Just the hustle. And all the while, this novel, this debut, was supposed to be my escape hatch. My ticket to… not rich, just… *different*. Not a teacher who barely got by, not a gig worker scrapping by, but an *author*. That’s the dream, right? The grand, stupid, delusional dream. I sent it off to some small press. Small, because I’m not an idiot, I know my place. But still, the email hit a few days ago. The "we'll be in touch in 8-10 weeks" thing. And the weirdest part? I’m almost rooting for the rejection. Like, come on, just tell me already. Tell me it's shit. Tell me I wasted twenty years teaching, and then another five after that trying to write something that's also shit. Just prove it. Prove I was wrong all along. Because if they *do* take it? Then what? Then I have to actually be good. And what if I’m not? What if this whole thing was just a really elaborate way to avoid… something else. I don't know. Just... prove me wrong, universe. Please. I’m tired.