The muffled hum of city life seeped through the thin walls of Max Carter's cramped studio apartment, a constant backdrop to his ever-present sense of inadequacy. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, the hum of tires on asphalt blending with the occasional burst of laughter or conversation from the street below. It was the soundtrack of a world that carried on, oblivious to his struggles.
Max sat hunched at his battered desk, the glow of his laptop screen casting faint shadows in the dimly lit room. His desk was cluttered with empty coffee mugs, scattered notebooks, and an assortment of pens that had long since dried up. Above the desk, a corkboard hung on the wall, adorned with sticky notes scrawled with character names, plot points, and half-baked ideas for stories he'd never finish.
The title of his fantasy novel, Echo of the Fallen King, stared back at him in bold, mocking letters.
Max's fingers hovered over the keyboard, but instead of typing, he found himself refreshing the sales dashboard again. He didn't even know why he bothered. The numbers didn't change.
Seven copies sold this month. Seven.
His chest tightened as he clicked over to the reviews, a small part of him hoping for a glimmer of validation, though he knew better. His breath hitched when he saw a new one at the top of the list. It was brief but brutal:
"Derivative. Shallow. Another dime-a-dozen fantasy novel that brings nothing new to the genre."
The words blurred as Max stared at them, his vision clouded by the sting of disappointment. He closed the laptop with a trembling hand and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. The air in the room felt heavy, thick with the echoes of his self-doubt.
It wasn't just a review; it was a condemnation of every fear he'd ever harbored about his writing.
For as long as Max could remember, he'd dreamed of crafting worlds—vivid, sprawling landscapes filled with heroes and villains, dragons and magic. Growing up in the monotony of small-town life, books had been his refuge. The pages were portals to adventures far beyond the four walls of his reality. He'd devoured everything from Tolkien to Le Guin, and the stories they told had ignited a burning desire to create his own.
But dreaming was one thing; finishing was another. Over the years, Max had started dozens of projects, only to abandon them halfway through, convinced they weren't good enough. Echo of the Fallen King had been different. It was the first story he'd ever completed, the product of countless late nights and endless revisions. It was supposed to be his triumph, proof that he could follow through.
Yet now, with its lukewarm reception, it felt like a cruel reminder that maybe he wasn't cut out for this.
The sound of the front door slamming open broke the silence, jolting Max from his thoughts. He barely had time to react before Liam barreled in, a whirlwind of energy carrying a greasy bag of takeout in one hand and a stack of video games in the other.
"Maximus!" Liam greeted him with a wide grin, dropping the bag onto the coffee table. "You've got to eat something other than ramen and regret."
Max rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a small smile. Liam had a knack for breaking through his brooding, even if only for a moment. Outgoing, perpetually optimistic, and brimming with creativity, Liam was everything Max wasn't. An aspiring filmmaker, he thrived on chaotic energy and wild ideas, always ready to jump headfirst into his next project.
"Still refreshing that dashboard?" Liam asked, nodding toward Max's laptop as he unwrapped a burger.
"Nope," Max lied, quickly shutting the screen.
"Uh-huh," Liam said through a mouthful of food. "Dude, you need to chill. Sales take time. You're just getting started. J.K. Rowling wasn't an overnight success, you know."
"Yeah, and I bet she didn't get reviews calling her work derivative," Max muttered.
Liam snorted. "Derivative? Isn't everything derivative these days? Don't let some keyboard warrior kill your vibe. You just need to find your spark."
Max frowned but didn't reply. Liam's words were meant to comfort, but they only deepened his frustration. What spark? If he had a spark, wouldn't it have shown by now?
Liam tossed a controller onto the couch and flopped down beside it, gesturing for Max to join him. "You spend so much time writing about other worlds, it's like you're already living in one. Maybe that's your problem—you're too stuck in your head. You need to live a little, dude."
Max shook his head with a half-hearted chuckle. "Yeah, right. Like I'm gonna step into some magical portal and be whisked away to a world where I actually matter."
"Hey, be careful what you wish for," Liam said, winking.
The comment lingered longer than Max cared to admit. As much as he brushed it off, part of him couldn't help but wish it were possible—to escape, to find a place where he wasn't just another failed writer but someone who truly belonged.
As the evening wore on, Max found himself staring at his corkboard. The sticky notes, once vibrant with promise, now seemed like relics of a dream he wasn't sure he believed in anymore.
Liam, sprawled on the couch with a controller in hand, glanced over at him. "Dude, you coming over here or what? I'm not letting you sulk all night."
Max sighed and joined him on the couch, taking the second controller. They played for a while, the repetitive action of the game providing a welcome distraction. But even as Max pressed buttons and dodged virtual enemies, his mind wandered.
Max's alarm jolted him awake the next morning, pulling him out of an uneasy sleep. His dreams had been filled with twisting, half-formed scenes of ogres and knights, heroes and villains—fragments of stories he couldn't control. He rubbed his bleary eyes and dragged himself out of bed, mentally preparing for another long shift at the university library.
Working at the library wasn't glamorous, but it paid the bills—or at least part of them. Max had started the job two years ago as a part-time gig to supplement his dwindling student loans. He'd hoped it would give him time to focus on his writing, but instead, it became a monotonous routine of shelving books, dealing with impatient students, and enduring the occasional condescending professor.
The library itself was a towering, outdated building with creaking floors and shelves so tall they seemed to stretch into eternity. Max worked in the archives—a dusty, poorly lit section where most of the books hadn't been touched in decades. It was quiet, almost eerily so, which suited him fine most days.
Today, as he wheeled a cart of ancient tomes through the labyrinthine aisles, he found his thoughts drifting back to Echo of the Fallen King. The words of the scathing review echoed in his mind, no matter how hard he tried to push them away.
He sighed, pulling a book from the cart and sliding it onto the shelf. It wasn't just the review or the sales. It was the creeping fear that maybe Liam was right: maybe he was too stuck in his head. Too afraid to take risks, to live outside the safety of the worlds he created.
But what did "living" even mean for someone like him? Was it going through college and getting the coveted job that everyone wants that makes hundreds of thousands of dollars every year? Or just live off the government so he could go travel in a van to explore the country?
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Max's relationship with his family was... complicated. His parents, both accountants, had always been pragmatic, no-nonsense types who believed in stability and hard work. They didn't discourage Max's creative pursuits, but they didn't exactly encourage them either.
His dad, in particular, had a habit of making offhand comments like, "Writing's a nice hobby, but you should really focus on something more practical." Max had learned to nod and smile, hiding the sting behind polite silence.
His mom was gentler but no less skeptical. She'd once told him, "We just want you to have a secure future, Max. You're so talented, but maybe you should think about teaching or editing—something with a steady paycheck."
The one person who had always believed in him, without hesitation, was Ellie. His younger sister was his biggest cheerleader, even if she didn't fully understand the struggles of being a writer. Where Max was reserved, Ellie was outgoing and bubbly, with an innate ability to connect with people. She worked as a kindergarten teacher, and Max sometimes marveled at how effortlessly she seemed to navigate life.
Growing up, Ellie had been his sounding board for story ideas, the one person who never tired of hearing about his fantastical worlds. She still called regularly to check in, always asking about his writing and encouraging him to keep going.
But lately, Max had avoided talking about Echo of the Fallen King. He couldn't bring himself to admit how badly it was doing—not to Ellie, not to anyone besides the pestering Liam.
Later that evening, Max sat alone in his apartment, staring at his phone. He'd been meaning to call Ellie for days, but something always stopped him. The thought of telling her how badly his book was doing felt like admitting he'd failed her, too.
The phone buzzed in his hand, making him jump. Ellie's name flashed on the screen.
With a resigned sigh, he answered. "Hey, Ellie."
"Hey, Max!" Ellie's cheerful voice came through the line, and for a moment, it lifted his mood. "I was just thinking about you. How's the book doing? Any new reviews?"
Max winced, his stomach twisting. "Uh... yeah. Still pretty slow. Not much movement on sales."
Ellie's tone softened. "Oh, Max... I know it's frustrating, but don't give up. It just takes time to find the right audience."
"Yeah," Max said, forcing a smile she couldn't see. "Time."
"You're still writing, right? Working on something new?"
Max hesitated. "Sort of. I've been... experimenting with different ideas."
"Well, don't keep me in suspense! Let me know when you've got something I can read."
"I will," Max promised, though he wasn't sure he meant it.
"Good," Ellie said brightly. "Just remember, Max—there's more to life than reviews. You're a great writer. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
"Thanks, Ellie."