I stared at the blinking cursor on my computer screen as if sheer willpower could summon the words that refused to come.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, frozen in some awkward half-gesture of defeat.
The silence in my cramped one-bedroom apartment felt oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional screech of tires from the street below.
It had been a week since I last updated my story.
"Story," I scoffed aloud, the word tasting bitter.
Some grandiose epic it was turning out to be. My magnum opus, Blood and Starlight, had garnered precisely one reader in six months. One. And that was probably out of pity.
Still, the single comment under each chapter, signed "Writer_Block," was the lifeline keeping me tethered to this sinking ship of a dream.
Every time I hit "publish," their comment would appear within hours: "Loved this part! Can't wait to see what happens next!"
Whoever they were, their enthusiasm felt like a cruel joke. But it also kept me going—until now.
I pushed back from the desk, the cheap wheels of my chair squealing in protest.
The apartment's dim lighting cast shadows on the unwashed dishes piled in the sink, the unopened bills stacked on the counter, and the box of instant noodles mocking me from its perch on top of the microwave.
The place smelled faintly of stale coffee and desperation.
This was not the life I had envisioned when I quit my day job to become a full-time author.
"Idiot," I muttered, running a hand through my unkempt hair. The mirror across the room reflected a gaunt face with dark circles under tired eyes. My reflection looked back at me with the same judgment I felt in my gut.
I had believed in myself once, believed that my stories could captivate hearts and minds. But no amount of belief seemed to matter when algorithms rewarded sloppy fanfiction and clickbait romance over carefully crafted narratives.
My work, which I had poured my soul into, was buried under piles of trending mediocrity.
I sat back down, opened my blog page, and typed the words I had been dreading.
Announcement:
To my one and only reader… Thank you for sticking with me this long. It means the world to me that someone out there enjoyed my work. But I can't do this anymore. Financially, emotionally—it's just not sustainable. Blood and Starlight is officially on hiatus.
The lump in my throat tightened as I hovered over the "post" button. Did this count as failure? Admitting defeat? Or was it just common sense catching up with me? I pressed "post" before I could think too hard about it and closed the laptop.
The room felt emptier now, as if even my furniture was disappointed in me.
The next few days passed in a blur of avoidance. I didn't open my email or check the site. I didn't want to face Writer_Block's inevitable disappointment—if they even noticed I was gone. Instead, I spent my time scrolling social media and pretending not to notice how low my bank balance was dipping.
On the third day, a knock at the door startled me out of my stupor.
"Delivery for Steven Ross!"
Delivery? I hadn't ordered anything. I shuffled to the door and opened it to find a cheerful courier holding a plain brown package.
"Sign here," he said, thrusting a clipboard at me. I signed and took the box, my curiosity piqued. No return address. Just my name scrawled in neat handwriting.
I set the package on the table and grabbed a knife to cut through the tape. Inside was a laptop. Not just any laptop, though—it was sleek, high-end, and far beyond anything I could afford. Taped to the screen was a handwritten note:
To Steven,
A small token of appreciation for the stories you've shared. Keep writing. The world needs your voice.
—Writer_Block
I blinked, rereading the note several times. My first instinct was suspicion. Was this some elaborate prank? But the laptop was real, and so was the weight of the note's sentiment.
"Keep writing," I murmured. As if it were that simple.
But something about the gesture stirred a flicker of something I hadn't felt in months: hope. I powered on the laptop, the screen lighting up with a satisfying glow. A single folder was on the desktop, labeled "Begin."
I clicked it.
The screen filled with a blank document. A message appeared:
Write anything.
I stared at the blinking cursor, my palms clammy. What could I possibly write now? After a long pause, I typed a single sentence:
Once upon a time, there was a woman who owned 100 cats.
I smirked at the absurdity of it. Before I could delete the line, the laptop emitted a faint hum, and the words seemed to shimmer on the screen.
Then they began to change. The sentence expanded, blooming into vivid prose that I hadn't written. My hands hovered over the keyboard, frozen in shock as the story unfolded before my eyes.
By the time it stopped, the screen displayed an intricately written story. It was ridiculous, yet strangely compelling—a heartwarming tale about a lonely woman whose 100 cats helped her rediscover her joy for life. It was... brilliant.
"What the hell?" I whispered.
Before I could process what had happened, an alert popped up on the screen: Publish?
I hesitated. But then, driven by a mixture of curiosity and recklessness, I clicked "Yes." The laptop hummed again, and a message appeared: Uploaded.
The next morning, I awoke to my phone buzzing incessantly. Half-asleep, I checked my notifications and nearly dropped the device.
The story had gone viral. Comments flooded in, praising the creativity and depth of the tale. My follower count was skyrocketing.
I stared at the laptop, my heart pounding. This wasn't normal. This wasn't possible.
And yet, I couldn't stop the grin spreading across my face.
"What are you?" I murmured to the laptop, as if it could answer. My mind raced with possibilities, questions, and one overwhelming thought:
This could change everything.
But as the euphoria of sudden success set in, a faint unease lingered at the edges of my mind. Something about this didn't feel right. And the note from Writer_Block… What did they know?
I had a feeling I was about to find out.