The room is dim, lit only by the glow of his laptop. Aoki sits hunched over the desk, the hum of his computer filling the silence. The cursor blinks on a blank document. He opens a chat window on his screen and begins to type—talking to himself, as he often does.

---

Aoki: Why am I still doing this?

---

Aoki: Because you love it.

---

Aoki: Love it? Love what? The silence? The empty notifications? The fact that no one even knows I exist?

---

Aoki: They don’t know yet. That’s the point.

---

Aoki: Yet. That’s what I keep telling myself. But what if they never care? What if no one ever reads these stories?

---

His fingers hover over the keyboard. He exhales sharply and leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The chat window waits, accusingly empty. He types again.

---

Aoki: Maybe I’m wasting my time.

---

Aoki: Are you, though? You’ve created worlds. People. Lives. You’ve built entire universes. Isn’t that worth something?

---

Aoki: It doesn’t matter if it’s worth something if no one sees it.

---

Aoki: It matters to you. You cry when your characters break, laugh when they find joy. Isn’t that enough?

---

Aoki: It should be. But it’s not.

---

He pauses, scrolling through a folder filled with his unpublished drafts. Hundreds of titles. Thousands of words. He clicks on one, reads the first paragraph aloud to himself.

---

Aoki: “The stars whispered secrets to the boy who had forgotten how to dream.”

---

Aoki: It’s beautiful.

---

Aoki: You think it’s beautiful.

---

Aoki: Isn’t that a start?

---

Aoki slams the laptop shut, frustration bubbling up. He paces the room, his voice echoing in the silence.

---

Aoki: What’s the point of beauty if no one sees it? What’s the point of creating if no one cares?

---

Aoki: What’s the point of stopping? If you stop, they’ll never know.

---

Aoki: They don’t know now. They probably never will.

---

Aoki: But they could.

---

He stops pacing, the words sinking in. Slowly, he opens the laptop again, the chat window still waiting for him.

---

Aoki: What if I’m not good enough?

---

Aoki: What if you are?

---

Aoki: What if I’m just fooling myself?

---

Aoki: What if you’re not?

---

His fingers tighten over the keys, typing faster now, like the words are spilling out faster than he can think.

---

Aoki: I want them to feel what I feel. To see what I see. To live the stories I’ve lived in my head.

---

Aoki: Then let them. Even if it’s just one person. Even if it takes a lifetime.

---

Aoki: I don’t know if I can wait that long.

---

Aoki: You’ve waited this long. What’s a little longer?

---

Aoki leans back, staring at the blinking cursor again. The words resonate. He knows they’re his own, but they feel like they’ve come from someone else—someone wiser, someone braver.

---

Aoki: One day, someone will read them.

---

Aoki: And they’ll see every tear you shed. Every sleepless night. Every piece of your soul.

---

Aoki: I hope you’re right.

---

Aoki: I know I’m right.

---

The clock ticks past midnight. Aoki opens a new document and starts typing again, his heart beating in time with the rhythm of his words. The room is still quiet, but it feels a little less lonely and start writing a story which you are enjoying reading now .

---

[ This isn’t a fictional story—it’s me, my thoughts, my struggles laid bare. Every word is a glimpse into the battle I face as a writer, questioning my worth, my passion, and my purpose. It’s the unspoken dialogue I have with myself, the push and pull between doubt and determination. This is my reality, not just Aoki’s.]

---