I know this is gonna sound SO STUPID. Like, REALLY stupid. I’m almost 17 and I should be, like, excited about stuff, right? Everyone says I should be. My English teacher, Ms. Davies, always says I have a “real knack” for stories. She even told me once, like, seriously, that I could be a big deal writer. That was, like, last year, right before summer break. I still remember her saying it, standing by her desk, sun coming through the window… she even had this little purple flower in her hair. She gave me this huge stack of books to read, too. I still have them on my nightstand. Most are still wrapped in plastic. The thing is, I’m trying to write a book. A real one. Not for school, just for me. It’s got this cool plot, about a girl who finds a secret diary in a thrift store and it leads her on this whole adventure. It’s got magic and mystery and a cute boy, like, everything people like, you know? I’ve been working on it for AGES. Like, since I was 15. Every night, after my DoorDash shift ends, I come home, grab a Pop-Tart, and try to write. Usually from like 11 PM to 1 AM. Sometimes longer if I’m really into it. I’ve got, like, 67 pages done. Which is a lot for me. But then… I just stop. Like, suddenly. Usually when something good happens in the story, or when I figure out a really cool twist. My brain just freezes up. And it’s not because I’m tired, even though I usually AM tired. It’s because I get this SICK feeling in my stomach. Like a panic attack almost. My heart starts doing this weird thump-thump-thump thing. And I have to just close my laptop. Sometimes I even delete what I just wrote. It’s so dumb. Here’s the REALLY dumb part. The reason I stop. I get scared. I get scared that if I actually FINISH it, and it gets published, and people actually LIKE it… like, REALLY like it… then my whole life will change. I’d have to go on book tours, and talk to people, and do interviews, and go to all these fancy events. I’d have to SMILE all the time. I’d have to be, like, a public person. And I can barely order a coffee without my hands shaking sometimes. I just like being home, in my room, with my cat, watching Netflix. My whole life is basically quiet. And I LIKE quiet. I like my little gig jobs where I don’t have to talk to anyone much. I like being invisible. And I know, I KNOW it’s probably a million-to-one shot that any of this would ever happen. Like, I’m just some kid writing a fantasy story in her bedroom. But the fear is SO real. It’s like a physical thing that stops me from typing. I’m almost 17 and I’m literally afraid of success. How messed up is that? I just want to finish my book, but I also want to keep my life exactly the same. So I guess I just… won’t finish it then. And that’s the real confession. It just hurts to type it. My stomach still feels all twisted up. I should probably try to get some sleep. It’s like 2:17 AM. My next DoorDash shift starts at 6.