I wake up to the sound of keys instead of an alarm.
Not loud or frantic. Just Josh's fingers moving across the keyboard in that steady, patient way of his, like he's knocking politely on every sentence before letting it exist.
The apartment smells wrong.
Burned coffee. Not ruined. Just distracted.
I stare at the ceiling longer than I need to, tracing the faint crack above the bed. It looks like a river splitting into smaller veins. Brooklyn light slips through the blinds, pale and undecided. Morning without commitment.
Nothing feels urgent.
That's the first lie of the day.
I sit up slowly. When I step out, the old couch groans from the other room as Josh shifts his weight. He doesn't look up.
"Morning," he says, like he's been awake for hours.
"What time is it?
"Late enough that you can't complain," he says, "early enough that you still will."
I huff a laugh and shuffle toward the kitchenette. The coffee pot sits there like evidence of a minor crime. I pour anyway.
The first sip confirms it.
Burned.
Drinkable.
Regretful.
Josh finally glances over, eyes sharp behind his glasses.
"Don't say it."
"I wasn't going to."
"You were."
"I was thinking it very loudly."
He grins and turns back to the screen. He's in one of those moods. Focused, but light. Like the words are cooperating today.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Once.
Then again.
I ignore it.
Instead, I open my laptop. The familiar weight of it steadies me. Emails load slowly, as if they understand I'm not eager to meet them.
Submissions forwarded from the office.
Calendar reminders.
A note from an editor reminding me, politely, that politeness is not the same as patience.
Life admin.
Literary noise.
Then I see it.
Not highlighted.
Not flagged.
No punctuation trying to impress me.
Just a subject line, sitting there like it belongs.
Following up on your submission
I don't click it.
My cursor hovers. Drifts away. I open a different email instead. One about a meeting I already know I'll attend and already know I'll resent.
Josh watches me over the rim of his mug.
"You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The delay thing," he says. "Where you pretend emails are radioactive."
I shrug. "Maybe I'm building immunity."
"Or maybe you're afraid it'll change something."
I look at him. He isn't teasing. Not really.
"Or," I say carefully, "maybe it's nothing."
Josh raises an eyebrow. "You don't stare at nothing like it owes you money."
I close the laptop harder than necessary. The sound snaps through the room.
"I'll check it later."
"When?"
"After work. Or never. I haven't decided."
Josh leans back, studying me the way he does when he's pretending not to.
"You know," he says, "normal people open those immediately."
"I'm not normal people."
"No," he says gently. "You're worse."
I almost smile.
Almost.
I grab my jacket, my bag, my notebook. Routine takes over. Shoes by the door. Keys in the same pocket. Life reduced to repeatable movements.
As I reach for the doorknob, my phone buzzes again.
I don't look.
I learned this trick early. If you delay joy long enough, it dulls. Becomes manageable. Loses its ability to surprise you when you are unguarded.
Josh clears his throat.
"For what it's worth," he says, eyes on the table, "whatever that email is, it doesn't get to decide who you are today."
I pause, the door open a fraction.
"No," I say. "But it might decide who I am later."
Outside, the city is already loud. Already moving. Already uninterested in my unopened inbox.
I step into it anyway.
The email stays unread.
For now.
---
I don't make it to the subway.
I make it halfway down the stairs before my phone vibrates again. Insistent this time. Like it's done being ignored.
I stop on the landing. One hand on the railing. The other already reaching for the screen.
Same subject line.
Following up on your submission
The words feel heavier now. Like they gained weight while I wasn't looking.
I exhale and open it.
No confetti.
No enthusiasm.
No praise trying to soften the blow.
Just a clean block of text. Professionally spaced. Carefully restrained.
> Hi Ash,
I hope you're doing well. I wanted to follow up regarding the manuscript you submitted last month. We've had a chance to review it internally, and I wanted to express interest in discussing it further.
Interest.
Not excitement.
Not hunger.
Interest, like I've been turned over and inspected.
I keep reading.
> The writing feels controlled and clean, with a strong sense of voice. There's a restraint here that we found compelling, and we think the work shows promise, particularly in how it navigates emotional distance.
Controlled.
Clean.
I swallow.
> From a market perspective, we believe this could be positioned effectively with the right framing and edits. I'd love to schedule a call to discuss potential next steps, if you're open to it.
Marketable.
The word arrives last. Like a stamp.
No flourish. No warmth at the end. Just a junior editor's name I vaguely recognize. Someone young enough to be careful. Someone important enough to matter.
I stare at the screen until the words blur.
This is it.
This is the thing people celebrate.
I turn around and go back upstairs.
---
Josh is still at the table. His fingers pause mid-sentence when he sees my face. He straightens immediately.
"What happened?"
I don't answer. I set my bag down. Sit. Stand again. The apartment feels smaller now, like the walls shifted while I was gone.
I hand him my phone.
"Read it."
He does. His eyes move faster than mine did.
When he finishes, he looks up slowly.
"Holy," he says. "Ash."
"It's not holy," I reply. "It's adequate."
Josh snorts. "They want a call."
"They want to discuss a call."
"That's still a call."
I take the phone back, scrolling as if something new might appear.
"They didn't say they loved it."
"They didn't say they hated it."
"They didn't say it mattered."
"They said it was controlled," he says. "That's good."
"That's safe," I correct. "That's me not scaring anyone."
He watches me carefully now. Measuring.
"So," he asks, "what's wrong?"
I laugh. Short. Empty. The sound surprises both of us.
"Nothing."
He doesn't believe me. I don't ask him to.
Then I say it, slower this time. Testing the sentence before committing to it.
"I think something's happening."
Josh's expression shifts.
Not celebration.
Recognition.
"Yeah," he says. "That's what it looks like."
I sit back down. The chair creaks. I stare at the closed laptop like it's waiting for permission to change my life.
Something is happening.
Not joy.
Not victory.
Momentum.
And for the first time, I don't know whether to lean into it or brace.
---
I take the call on the fire escape. It's the only place where my voice doesn't echo back at me.
The metal is cold through my jeans. The city moves beneath me. Garbage truck groaning. Someone laughing too loud. A car alarm that gives up halfway through its panic.
I let it all happen and press the phone to my ear.
"Hi, Ash. This is Mara."
Her voice matches expectation. Warm. Efficient. Lightly caffeinated. The voice of someone who has already had two meetings today and will have three more after me.
"Hi," I say. "Thanks for calling."
"Of course. I'll jump right in. I don't want to take too much of your time."
She says it like time is currency we're both budgeting.
"We really responded to your work," she continues. "There's a restraint to it that feels intentional. You don't overwrite your pain. That's rare."
Pain lands between us like a neutral fact.
"Thank you," I say.
"We see a clear audience for this," she says. "Readers drawn to quiet intensity. Emotional clarity without excess. There's sophistication here."
Positioning.
Audience.
Clarity.
Clean words. None of them mine.
She continues.
"We'd want to talk about framing. There are places we might guide the narrative slightly, make sure it's accessible without losing integrity. But fundamentally, we see this working as a debut."
Debut.
The word stays longer than the rest.
Below me, a woman drags a suitcase with one broken wheel. A man argues into his phone like the person on the other end offended him by existing.
"Can I ask," I say, surprised my voice is steady, "what made it stand out?"
There's a pause. Considered. Professional.
"You know where to stop," she says. "You let silence do some of the work. From a market perspective, that's compelling."
Market perspective again.
I grip the railing.
"We'd be looking at a modest advance," she adds. "Standard debut terms. But we're excited about you. There's room to grow."
Excited sounds lighter than it should.
"And if you're open to it," she says, "we'd love to move forward."
I think of the file on my laptop.
The one with the wrong heart in it.
The one I didn't send.
"Yes," I say. "I'm open."
"Wonderful," she replies, like it was inevitable. "Welcome, Ash. We're excited to have you."
The call ends.
I don't move.
The phone stays in my hand, screen dark, faintly reflecting my face. I look older like this. Or less certain.
Below me, the city keeps going. Someone shouts. Someone sings badly. A bus exhales at the corner.
I've just agreed to my first book.
And it feels like I signed something in a language I don't fully speak.
I sit there for a long time, staring at my phone, waiting for the feeling I'm supposed to have.
All I find is a tight, careful quiet.