Josh knows before I say anything.
I step back into the apartment and he is already standing, chair scraped halfway across the floor, eyes scanning my face like he has learned to read microexpressions out of necessity.
"Well?" he asks. "You look like you just survived something."
"I got a call," I say, setting my phone down on the counter like it might buzz again and undo itself. "They want to move forward."
He freezes.
Just for a second.
Then he is across the room.
Josh hugs like he is afraid the person might disappear if he does not apply enough pressure. His arms lock around my shoulders, solid and unhesitating, and my body reacts before my mind does. I stiffen first. Then I let it happen.
"You did it," he says into my shoulder, already loud, already smiling so hard I can hear it in his voice. "You actually did it."
"I haven't signed anything yet."
"It doesn't matter. It's real." He pulls back, hands still gripping my jacket like proof. "They don't call if it isn't real."
He steps away, then immediately starts pacing, like the apartment has suddenly become too small to contain this news.
"A debut," he says. "Do you understand how insane that is? You sent one thing out and they said yes. That does not happen."
"It happens," I say. "Just not loudly."
He laughs. A full, unfiltered sound that hits the walls and bounces back brighter.
Josh grabs the coffee pot and pours himself another cup even though it is clearly past reasonable hours for caffeine. He does not notice. Or does not care.
"What did they say?" he asks. "Details. I want details."
I lean against the counter. "They liked the restraint. Said it was clean. Controlled."
Something in my chest tightens. Just a little. Like a muscle remembering its job.
Josh points at me with the mug like he has just won an argument that has not happened yet. "See? I told you. You do not have to bleed on the page to matter."
The sentence lands wrong.
Not sharp. Not cruel.
Just misplaced.
"That's power," he adds. "You did it without tearing yourself open."
I smile because that is what you do when someone is proud of you.
"Yeah," I say. "I guess."
Josh is glowing now. Fully in it. He sits on the edge of the table, kicking his feet lightly against the cabinet like a kid who has been promised a future he can already see.
"This is huge, Ash," he says. "This is you proving you can be safe and still be great. That you do not have to destroy yourself for art."
Safe.
I nod again.
Inside, something settles into place. Not pain. Recognition.
Josh believes safety equals strength because he survived by building outward. By being loud. By turning chaos into structure. For him, this is victory. Proof that the world rewards control.
For me, it feels like being praised for surviving a storm by never stepping into the rain.
"I'm proud of you," he says, quieter now. "I really am."
I meet his eyes. I mean it when I say, "Thanks."
He deserves that truth, even if I do not give him the whole one.
Josh turns back to his laptop, already talking about timelines, about what this means next, about how this is only the beginning. His words blur together into a hopeful hum.
I stay where I am, smiling faintly.
Letting his joy fill the room.
And quietly wondering what part of me just learned how to hide better.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The conference room smells like coffee that has been reheated too many times and marker ink that never quite fades.
The table is long and scarred with history. Ring stains. Indents from elbows. Someone's initials carved into the corner like they thought they would be here forever.
I sit where assistants sit. Not quite in the circle. Close enough to hear. Far enough to be ignored.
That used to comfort me.
Today, it doesn't.
The meeting starts without ceremony. Too fast. No preamble. A senior editor flips open a folder and the conversation ignites mid-thought.
"Soft covers are underperforming in this range," she says. "Hardback first, then trade."
"Only if we can justify the price point," another voice replies. "Debut, remember."
Debut.
I write the word in my notebook like it might explain something.
A mock-up slides across the table. A placeholder cover. Muted colors. A solitary figure, slightly blurred, facing away from the camera.
"This feels safe," the marketing lead says. "Quiet, but not alienating."
Safe again.
"We should comp it carefully," someone adds. "Maybe say it's for readers of—"
He names two books. One I loved. One I respected but never believed.
My jaw tightens before I realize it has.
Timing comes next.
"Fall release would bury it," the publicist says. "Late spring could work. Emotional, but not heavy."
"Position it as introspective, not tragic," another editor suggests. "We don't want to scare people."
Scare people from what, I wonder.
From recognizing themselves.
The thought arrives and I push it away just as quickly.
I keep my head down. Pen moving. Notes that no one will ever read. I am good at this part.
Then my name enters the room.
Casually.
"His manuscript fits this lane," someone says, flipping a page. "Clean voice. Accessible. We can work with it."
His.
Not Ash.
Not the kid who wrote at three in the morning because silence felt dangerous.
Just a category.
An asset.
"Yeah," another voice agrees. "It's controlled. That's the appeal."
I think of the line they cut in edits. The one that felt too close to the bone. I had agreed. Of course I had. It was easier than explaining why it mattered.
No one mentions why it was written.
Not once.
They talk about covers again. Fonts. Whether my last name should be larger than the title. Someone jokes about how sad boys sell well if they are self-aware.
A few people laugh.
I don't.
It is not cruel. That is the strangest part. No one is lying. No one is mocking me. This is simply how the machine sounds when it is functioning properly.
Clear. Efficient. Bloodless.
I look around the table and understand something quietly, without panic or drama.
This world does not reward truth.
It rewards clarity.
Truth is messy. Truth argues back. Truth leaks into places that do not fit margins or seasons.
Clarity can be packaged.
The meeting ends. Chairs scrape. People stretch. Conversations dissolve and reform around new priorities.
I close my notebook. My notes are incomplete and perfect in their uselessness.
No one looks at me.
And for the first time since getting the call, I understand exactly what I have agreed to.
Not a story.
A version of one.