Elara Bloom had never been good at saying things out loud. Not the big things, anyway. She could talk about homework and movies and what she wanted for lunch, sure—but the thoughts that lived deeper, the ones tangled in her ribs like ivy? Those only ever made it to the page.

That’s why, at exactly 3:17 p.m. every weekday, she ducked through the peeling green door of Whitmore’s Bookstore, slipped past the “Local Authors” display, and settled into the second armchair in the back corner. It was her routine. Her ritual. Her refuge.

The bookstore wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t even particularly clean. Dust danced in the light that spilled through the mismatched front windows. The floorboards creaked in protest with every step. But to Elara, it was magic. Here, no one asked her what she planned to study in college. No one told her writing was “just a hobby.” Here, she could breathe.

She opened her leather-bound journal—the navy one with worn edges and a frayed ribbon bookmark—and flipped past doodles, snippets of dialogue, and dozens of unfinished stories. She landed on the one that mattered most: Dandelion Summer.

Her pencil hovered.

Lark stood at the edge of the invisible town again, torn between staying in a world that felt like hers and returning to one that never had. Elara had rewritten this scene at least six times in the last month. It never felt quite right. The problem wasn’t the story—it was the ending. Endings were hard. Endings meant deciding. Endings meant closing a door.

“Elara,” came a voice, warm and familiar.

She looked up to see Mr. Whitmore, balancing a stack of mismatched paperbacks. His sweater had a hole in the sleeve, and his glasses perched halfway down his nose.

“Still at it?” he asked, smiling.

“I’m close this time,” she said.

“Close is good.” He paused. “You know, endings are just beginnings in disguise. Sometimes we overthink them.”

“I know,” she said, glancing down at her notebook. “But I want it to be... honest.”

He gave a soft chuckle. “You always do.”

She stayed until the shop lights flickered, the silent signal that closing time was near. She packed up her things, slipping her journal into her worn canvas bag and waving goodbye to Mr. Whitmore as she stepped into the chilled evening.

The walk home was quiet, lined with brittle trees and the scent of early winter. Her house sat on a quiet street at the edge of town, where the stars showed up when the power lines didn’t interfere. It was a narrow two-story with a crooked mailbox and a wind chime that played the same song every night.

Inside, dinner was already on the table.

Her mother ladled stew into mismatched bowls while her father scrolled through something on his tablet. Her older brother, Drew, scrolled through his phone with the kind of focused apathy only teenage boys had mastered.

“So,” her mom said, settling into her seat. “Have you thought more about college programs?”

Elara kept her eyes on the steam rising from her bowl. “A little.”

“Your English teacher said you’ve got a strong voice,” her dad added, looking up. “Maybe education. Or communications. Something with stability.”

“Sure,” she murmured.

The rest of dinner passed in the quiet hum of background noise—cutlery, chewing, a few half-hearted attempts at conversation. Elara mostly listened.

Afterward, she climbed the stairs to the attic room she called her own. The air was colder up there, but she liked it. It had slanted ceilings, a single window, and a view of the moon that felt like a secret.

She sat at her desk, fingers resting on the keys of her battered typewriter. The ‘R’ stuck sometimes, printing tilted and off-kilter, like it was tired. She loved that.

Elara fed a fresh sheet of paper into the machine. The attic was quiet except for the soft tick of the wall clock and the wind pressing gently against the glass.

She wrote late into the night, her thoughts pouring into the story like ink into veins.

Lark wasn’t just a character.

She was Elara’s way of making sense of a world that didn’t always make room for people like her—quiet dreamers who didn’t always fit the mold.

And Elara knew, deep down, that she wasn’t writing just to finish something.

She was writing to begin.

The school library was, as usual, a place where Elara went to disappear. The air always smelled faintly of printer ink, old paper, and dust that never seemed to settle, even with the windows cracked open. The faint hum of overhead fluorescent lights blended with the soft murmur of students studying or chatting, but it was still quiet enough for Elara to slip into her world of words and silence.

She sat at the far corner, her favorite spot, where no one bothered her. Her laptop was open in front of her, the screen illuminating her face with the glow of Dandelion Summer in progress. It had been a good day of writing—Lark’s journey through the forest of glass trees was finally taking shape. She felt like she could almost see it. The colors. The magic. The choice she was about to make.

She clicked away at the keys, pushing words into place, tightening the plot. She could already feel the words beginning to grow beyond the confines of her mind, expanding into something bigger. Something real. But it wasn’t enough. It never felt like enough.

Her friend Mika, leaning against the bookshelf nearby, was tapping away on his phone, scrolling through his latest list of college options. He’d been doing this all year—figuring out where he’d go, which scholarships he could apply for, and the programs that would set him on a path that everyone else could understand.

Mika had always been the pragmatic one. The one who did things by the book, the one who followed the rules. He never hesitated, and he never second-guessed. It was one of the things Elara admired about him.

But it also made her feel like she was falling short, like she was always chasing something she couldn’t quite reach.

“You’re zoning out again,” Mika said, looking up from his phone. His voice was teasing, but it held a warmth that made Elara want to laugh.

“I’m not,” she replied, trying to cover the fact that her thoughts had wandered to a different place entirely.

Mika raised an eyebrow. “Are you still thinking about the story? You’ve been on Chapter 14 for, what—three weeks?”

She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m almost done. I just need to get this part right.”

He pushed away from the shelf and walked over to her, his long strides bringing him easily to her side. “You’ve been saying that for weeks. You’re always so close, but you never finish.”

“I don’t know how to finish it.” She stared at the screen, the blinking cursor now almost mocking her.

Mika sat down beside her, his eyes scanning the page. “You know, you could actually send it somewhere.”

Elara’s head snapped up. “What?”

“There’s this contest,” he said. “The Orion Fellowship. It’s national. Writers from all over submit their work. If you’re a finalist, you get published. Editors actually read the entries.”

Elara blinked at him. “You’re serious?”

He nodded, his face serious now, the usual playfulness gone. “It’s not just for people who are already published. It’s for writers. Real writers. People like you.”

She shook her head, incredulous. “I’m not ready. My story’s not finished, and I’m not... I’m not good enough.”

“Of course you are.” Mika’s voice softened, a rare seriousness filling his tone. “You’ve got talent. I’ve seen it.”

Elara felt her heart do a strange, quick flutter. Talent. It was a word she heard often enough, but never in reference to herself. Her writing had always been something she kept to herself. She wasn’t sure if she was good enough to be judged by anyone but her own eyes.

Mika pulled a small flash drive from his backpack and slid it across the table toward her. “Deadline’s next week. I’ll bug you every day until you enter.”

She stared at it. The flash drive gleamed in the sunlight, almost like a small, metallic promise.

“Please,” he urged, leaning closer. “What’s the worst that could happen? You’re already writing the story. Just send it.”

The idea was terrifying. And thrilling. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was on the edge of something. She just had to take a step. A leap.

Elara reached out and touched the flash drive. She felt a strange energy pulsing in her fingertips, the weight of a decision hanging in the air.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, but inside, she already knew.

That night, she sat at her desk again, the attic room quiet except for the occasional creak of the house settling. Her typewriter sat in front of her, silent, waiting. She closed her eyes for a moment and pictured Lark, standing at the boundary of the invisible town. It was all she had—her words, her dreams. She couldn’t just keep writing in secret.

She opened her laptop and pulled up the Orion Fellowship page. The glowing cursor on the submission form felt like a challenge. Are you brave enough to send this out there?

It took a few more hours to gather the courage to finish editing Chapter 14—just one more pass through, tightening the prose, smoothing the transitions. She reviewed everything one last time, giving the words a quick read-through to make sure they felt like they were ready for the world.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard again, and the cursor blinked. She could almost hear Mika’s words in her head. You’re already writing the story. Just send it.

It was 11:37 p.m. when she finally hit “Submit.” The screen flickered briefly before a confirmation message appeared.

Your entry has been submitted.

Elara sat back in her chair, her breath shallow, her heart racing. It was done. She had taken the first step. But now what?

The silence in the room seemed louder than before, the walls pressing in, but she didn’t feel fear. Not exactly. What she felt was a strange peace, like a door had opened just a crack.

For the first time, she had dared to send her words out into the world. She was no longer just a dreamer. She was a writer.

The days that followed were a blur of nerves and anticipation. Elara couldn’t concentrate at school. She sat in classes, her pencil tapping restlessly against the desk, her thoughts drifting far away. She couldn’t help it. Every time her phone buzzed, her heart leapt, only to sink when it was just another notification about a test or a reminder from her mom to take out the trash.

The submission had been sent, but the waiting stretched out in front of her like a hallway with no end. She couldn’t tell anyone—not her parents, not Mika, not even her best friend, Rae, who usually shared everything with her. She couldn’t explain the quiet anxiety that settled in her chest every time she stared at her inbox. What if they didn’t like her story? What if they saw her name and thought, Not yet, Not enough?

She tried to push it all aside. She tried to focus on other things: schoolwork, reading, the occasional phone call with Rae. But every time she walked past the stack of novels on her desk—books from authors who had once been where she was, struggling to make it—her heart felt heavy.

One afternoon, a week later, she was back in the school library, tapping away at her laptop. The soft hum of the library was comforting, grounding her in a way nothing else could. She had to get back to Lark’s story, even if it was just a distraction.

Mika sat across from her, working on his own assignment. He glanced up every now and then, watching her with a knowing look, but said nothing. He understood that waiting could be the hardest part. He didn’t need to ask.

Elara’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She knew exactly what Lark needed to do next, but every time she tried to write it, the words slipped away like water through her fingers. The story felt like it was holding something back, like she wasn’t ready for it yet.

“I keep thinking about it,” Elara admitted, her voice low. She glanced at Mika.

“About what?”

“The submission,” she said, her eyes flicking to the glowing inbox tab on her screen. “I keep thinking maybe they’ll just... ignore it. Or not even read it. Maybe it’s all just... too much.”

Mika shrugged, unbothered. “You already did the hard part. Sending it. Now, you just have to wait. You can’t control everything.”

“I know. But it feels like I’m waiting for my whole future to come in an email. Like one little message is going to decide everything.”

He raised an eyebrow. “It doesn’t decide everything. It’s just the first step.”

Her lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “You’re right. But it still feels like a lot.”

“Then do something else,” Mika suggested. “Stop thinking about it. Focus on what you can control.”

“I don’t know how,” she muttered.

“Write. Or read. Or... maybe go to that bookstore again? You could finish your scene there. Or brainstorm with Mr. Whitmore.”

She frowned, tapping her pen against the table. “I don’t know if that’ll help. But maybe...”

And that’s when it happened. Her phone buzzed.

Elara’s breath hitched in her chest. She didn’t dare look at it. Not yet. Not until she had calmed down, until she could pretend she wasn’t waiting for this exact moment for the last week.

“Go on,” Mika urged.

Elara unlocked her phone with shaking fingers and opened the notification. The subject line was simple: Orion Fellowship – Finalist Notification.

She didn’t read the email. Not yet. Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest, it was all she could hear. Her breath caught, and for a moment, she forgot where she was, lost in the silence of her own racing thoughts.

“Should I open it?” she asked Mika, her voice small.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he simply nodded, his face set with a calm, quiet encouragement.

Slowly, Elara opened the email. Her eyes scanned the words quickly, but they didn’t make sense at first. She had to read them again.

Dear Elara Bloom,

We are thrilled to inform you that your story, “Dandelion Summer,” has been selected as a finalist for the Orion Fellowship. Congratulations on this accomplishment!

Elara’s breath came in sharp gasps. It was real. It was happening.

Her hands shook as she set her phone down and looked at Mika, who was grinning from ear to ear. She wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. All she could do was smile back, wide and breathless.

She was a finalist. She was actually a finalist.

And she hadn’t even expected it.