REAL

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.

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Aoki: Why am I still doing this?

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Aoki: Because you love it.

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

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

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

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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.

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Aoki: Maybe I’m wasting my time.

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

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

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

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Aoki: It should be. But it’s not.

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He pauses, scrolling through a folder filled with his unpublished drafts.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.

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

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Aoki: It’s beautiful.

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Aoki: You think it’s beautiful.

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Aoki: Isn’t that a start?

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

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

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

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

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Aoki: But they could.

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

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Aoki: What if I’m not good enough?

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Aoki: What if you are?

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Aoki: What if I’m just fooling myself?

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Aoki: What if you’re not?

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

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Aoki: One day, someone will read them.

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

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Aoki: I hope you’re right.

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Aoki: I know I’m right.

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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 .

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[ 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.]

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