Aimi slumped back into his chair, staring at the glowing screen. The email was short, brutal, and exactly what he expected.
"Dear Aimi Amirul, Thank you for submitting your manuscript, but unfortunately, it does not meet our current publishing needs..."
The rest was a blur. He didn't need to read it again. It was his fifth rejection this month, and it wasn't even the middle of the month yet.
He rubbed his face, groaning into his hands. "Maybe I should quit. Get a real job. Something respectable, like... I don't know, selling insurance or flipping burgers."
The apartment around him didn't exactly scream "successful writer." Papers were scattered across his desk, stacks of novels he bought for "research" were gathering dust in the corner, and the ramen bowl from last night was still sitting on the table.
His phone buzzed.
Farah: "Still alive? Or should I prepare a eulogy?"
Aimi rolled his eyes, typing back.
"Rejection #15. I think I'm legally dead now."
Her reply came instantly.
"Congrats! 5 more and you'll unlock the 'Ultimate Loser' achievement. Hang tight, genius."
"Genius," he muttered sarcastically, tossing his phone onto the bed. Maybe Farah was right. Maybe he was just a loser clinging to a dream that wasn't meant to be.
"Aimi!"
His grandmother's voice carried through the apartment, breaking through his pity party.
"What?" he called back without getting up.
"Come here, boy! You're just sitting there sulking again, aren't you?"
Aimi sighed, dragging himself into the living room where his grandmother sat cross-legged on a woven mat. Incense filled the room, and the faint sound of Egyptian chants played from an ancient cassette player.
"Were you... doing another ritual?" Aimi raised an eyebrow, glancing at the candles and the small statue of a jackal-headed figure on the table.
"You're being watched," his grandmother said without looking at him.
"Great. By who? Debt collectors? My landlord? Farah with another lecture?"
She finally turned to him, her expression unusually serious. "By the gods."
Aimi froze, caught between disbelief and annoyance. "Grandma, please. I've had a bad day. Can we skip the whole 'the gods are watching you' thing?"
She pointed to the watch on his wrist, an old, rusted piece she'd forced on him a week ago. "That watch isn't just a family heirloom. It's a gift from the gods. They're waiting for you to prove yourself."
Aimi blinked. "You mean this broken piece of junk?"
"It's not junk!" she snapped. "You'll see. They've chosen you. Just wait."
He opened his mouth to argue but stopped when the watch's glass face flickered, a faint glow pulsing beneath it.
Aimi stepped back, his voice shaky. "What... was that?"
His grandmother simply smiled. "Told you. The gods are watching."
In that moment, Aimi had two thoughts. One: maybe his grandmother wasn't as crazy as he thought. Two: he might have just stepped into something way bigger than another rejection email.
Next day,
Aimi sat hunched at a café table, nervously drumming his fingers against the chipped wood. His laptop sat in front of him, screen dark, as if even it had given up on his writing dreams. Across from him, Farah scrolled through his manuscript on her tablet, her eyebrows furrowing deeper with every paragraph.
"This is…" she started, then sighed dramatically. "Aimi, how do I put this gently?"
"Be honest," Aimi muttered, staring at his empty coffee cup.
"Okay, it's bad." She set the tablet down like it physically hurt to hold. "And I don't mean 'oh, you're almost there' bad. I mean, 'this makes me question our friendship' bad."
Aimi groaned, sinking lower into his chair. "That gentle enough for you?"
Farah smirked. "You asked for honesty. Besides, I'm doing you a favor. Imagine if an editor said that to your face."
"They already have," Aimi muttered.
Farah's teasing expression softened slightly, but only slightly. "Okay, look. Let's start with the basics. Why is everything so gloomy? Your protagonist spends, like, 80% of the story whining about life being meaningless, then the other 20% brooding in the rain. Does he even like being alive?"
"It's called depth," Aimi shot back.
"It's called depressing," she countered. "Seriously, where's the humor? The heart? The—oh, I don't know—relatable human emotion? You're just throwing existential crises at readers and hoping it sticks."
Aimi glared at her, but he knew she was right. He hated that she was right. "Fine. What do you suggest, O Wise Critic?"
"Glad you asked!" Farah leaned forward, her emerald-green earrings catching the sunlight as she grinned. "Stop writing about misery for starters. Write about something real. You know, actual experiences. Things you've seen, felt, lived through. Readers connect with that."
Aimi scoffed. "And what do I have to write about? The thrilling saga of being rejected by every publisher on Earth? The gripping tale of eating ramen for dinner six nights a week?"
"Yes!" Farah said, clapping her hands. "That's exactly it. Write about your struggle. Your quirks. People love underdogs. Give them the messy, relatable side of you. They'll eat it up."
Aimi frowned, turning her words over in his head. "You really think anyone wants to read about me failing at life?"
"Absolutely," Farah said. "You're an endless source of comedy gold."
"Gee, thanks," he muttered, though a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Farah stretched her arms and glanced out the café window. The late afternoon sun bathed the street in a warm glow, but her gaze was fixed on a specific corner near a convenience store.
"Oh, that reminds me!" she said suddenly, slamming her palms on the table.
Aimi jumped. "What?"
"I've been feeding this stray cat for a couple of weeks now. You have to come with me. He's adorable."
"Pass," Aimi said instantly.
"Oh, come on!" Farah whined. "You need fresh air. Plus, it's great writing inspiration. Stray cats are, like, the perfect metaphor for life—scrappy, resilient, always landing on their feet."
"That's a stretch," Aimi deadpanned.
Farah grabbed his wrist, yanking him out of his chair. "Nope. No arguments. You're coming."
Before he could protest, she dragged him out of the café and onto the bustling sidewalk.
---
Ten minutes later, they stood in a quiet alleyway behind the convenience store. Aimi wrinkled his nose at the smell of damp concrete and discarded food containers.