My hands are frozen—not only by the cold, but by something deeper, something unnamed. And why wouldn't they be? Life is colder than ice.
Under the blanket, my right hand stays warm while my left is an ice bar. In the dim glow of the screen, I write… something. Anything. I don't even know what it is yet—just something I've been feeling. No hope of it ever being chosen, but I write anyway. For myself. For the ones who might understand, even a little. The ones who might whisper: This is my reflection.
It's a tiny novel. Only fifty chapters. The genre is bold, shameful for the country I live in—GL. It's not that I'm into it; my whole social media is full of BL. But this story… it's about her, the one who confused me once.
I've named it: She: A Spark & A Heartbreak.
I've written countless novels before—unfinished, abandoned—but maybe someday I'll finish them too.
It's 1:06 a.m. Mom and Dad are probably asleep. The novel is almost done, polished with my spark, my sadness, my struggle. All fueled by a useless hope: Maybe this time, I'll be chosen.
The night passes to the dance of the keyboard. My eyes are dry, heavy with sleep, but my heart races with possibilities.
I didn't sleep at all, even though the library where I work demands stamina to handle loud customers.
The last thing I did before closing my eyes was fix the synopsis, make a cover, and secure the files on my phone.
Then the lazy me—the one who's barely worked hard at anything in life—gave everything to this novel.
Then sleep pulled me under like a wave of a lifetime's tiredness.
My cheap phone buzzed on mute. My body trembled, like it always does. I woke to the sound of my parents arguing.
The topic was me. Again.
What I heard made my body feel even heavier.
"Is this what I wanted to see after dropping money on her like water?! A hopeless writer? I wanted a doctor!" My father's voice rose with every word.
I lay silently, waiting for the storm to pass. But my eyes were already blurred with tears, my chest impossibly tight.
"What can we do if she chooses the drain over the river?" my mother shot back. "I told you to send her to a shrine, make her religious—but you wanted her to be a doctor! Now she's nothing. Just writes trash we never wanted!"
"You're saying it's my fault? Because I wanted a good life for her? Who will feed her in this generation? If she can't live the life I gave her, then there's no need to feed this rich person's hobby! I don't plant money on trees—I earn it!"
"Fine. No more. Her coffee, her rides in your car—it's over. Just find a man, marry her off, and kick her out of this house." My mother's voice was cold, empty of warmth.
"Of course. Throw her out. At least I can focus on my other girl, Hana. My shoulders will be lighter. What has your older daughter given me? Nothing but shame. My eyes burn every time I see her."
I heard a glass slam onto the table—a violent ting that echoed their anger.
"Why are you arguing with me about her? I tried my best! But she's worse than your older brother—worse than a worm! Your whole generation has a problem!"
"Hey—Yana!" my father warned, his voice a low growl. "You're crossing a line. Don't make this personal just because your daughter is a lunatic with a working brain!"
"Then stop your nonsense and go to your clinic after breakfast!" she yelled, storming away with a huff.
I heard him slam a hand on the table before standing. The food was left untouched.
"Then I don't need your fucking food," he cursed, and left with his apron still on.
The door shut hard. The argument stopped, but the storm didn't. My mother kept cursing me, muttering to herself, the dishes clattering loudly.
"That bitch—never did what we said. Only her own will, her own need. I ruined my life raising those humans. I could've been a white-hat hacker by now if I hadn't chosen this hell. Even dogs are more loyal than this pathetic girl. I should've died during my second pregnancy with Hana—an overdose of Anastasia. Useless. They wouldn't even pray if I died. So much bad luck. And your father? A fucking pig. All his frustration about Orohana drops on me like I'm a punching bag. What a girl I gave birth to… knows nothing about the world, still wears colorful glasses, wants to be a writer—how pathetic."
I didn't know what to feel. I just wished I could disappear.
But the air froze when I heard her sharp, angry breath and the loud thud of footsteps.
She was coming to my room.
My heart pounded, my throat tightened. Familiar panic crawled under my skin. My nails turned from pink to blue. A sob hitched in my chest before I could stop it.
Then I saw her. Eyes wide with pure rage, all of it burning into me. I forgot how to move.
No, no, please—I can't. I can't take this anymore. In my mind, I apologized to them, over and over, even though they couldn't hear.
"Mom—" I choked out.
Before I could finish, she hissed, "DON'T CALL ME MOM!"
Her voice trembled with fury. She looked around—for something to throw.
Then she started tearing through my desk, violently sweeping books and notebooks to the floor.
Then she threw a heavy book at me. It hit my face. She always does that when her anger crosses a line—when she remembers she can't actually erase me from the world.
I said nothing. I had nothing left to say.
Then she took my life.
My phone. My stories. My world.
"N-no, not that, Mom! Please!" I cried out.
"The biggest mistake I ever made was trusting you—thinking you'd study if I got you this cheap phone. But you didn't. Your father was right about you. I'm the fool who thought affection could fix things."
She threw the phone onto the floor.
The crack it made felt like a stab directly into my chest.
It was a secondhand phone. Weak. What if it was gone for good?
Tears fell without stopping. They hated me—the author, the invisible student, the older daughter.
She stepped on it, hard. Another tiny crack.
"Remember when I said I'd throw it on the floor? Now I have. I should've done it sooner."
I just stared, her face blurred behind my tears.
I didn't want to see her. I didn't want to see this hate anymore—the kind that burns so painfully it makes you want to erase yourself from the world. But you can't.
Because you're the main character of your own story, and only you can write its climax.
That's what life is.
She threw another book at me. I lowered my eyes.
"Disrespectful. Staring into my eyes while being scolded," she hissed.
"Get out of my sight! NOW! Before I really kill you!"
It was anger—hate aimed straight at me. Not that she would actually kill me. But in that moment, nothing felt certain.
The second she left, I got up.
My phone—now with a cracked screen. I grabbed it, along with some money, not even dressed. I stuffed clothes into a bag; the apartment had a garage washroom. I could change there.
I couldn't stay. Not anymore. I needed air.
The day felt as sad as I did. But at least it wasn't broken. I stopped under a building, just to check my phone. I hadn't dared to look earlier.
The screen struggled to turn on. But it worked—no internal damage. Still, I couldn't send my story to editors like this.
I went to a mobile shop first. They told me to leave it for five hours. I agreed, then headed to the library.
It's called Crystal Blue Vow.
I tied up my hair and put on glasses. My job was simple: help readers find what they want, make them buy—fake smiles, solid book knowledge.
The library was full of books, manga, danmei. Lately, Japanese manga and Chinese danmei were trending; everything else gathered dust. I cleaned that dust every day.
I pushed my personal life down and smiled at customers.
"Is there any GL Chinese novel?" a woman asked.
"Of course. We have a few, but since BL is so hot right now, they don't sell much." I led her to the shelf. "What kind are you looking for? Urban, fantasy, realistic? Dark? Comedy? Or… tragedy?"
She thought for a moment. "Realistic tragedy."
My heart skipped.
That was exactly my book.
But my book was hopeless. Unpublished. Lingering on WebNovel with 5k views, 10 collections. I hadn't even applied for a contract—too scared of another rejection. My tenth.
"Let me check for you," I said, scanning titles.
Shadow in Me — dark cultivation.
Beauty Without Brain — urban comedy.
Beneath You — system cultivation.
Omega x Omega — ugh, omegaverse urban.
People had forgotten that real beauty lies in real pain—not just heat.
I sighed. "Sorry, we don't have that exact genre in stock."
She sighed too, looking genuinely disappointed. "Alright. Nothing, then."
She turned to leave, but something in me sparked.
"Ma'am," I called out.
She turned. "Yes?"
"Could I take your name and number? I can place a special order for you."
"Sure. I'm Saki." She gave me her digits.
Then, before I lost my nerve: "And… if you're waiting, there's a web novel you might like. Not popular, but… it matches what you're looking for."
Her eyes lit up—so fast it reminded me of something I couldn't name. "Really? What's it called? Which app?"
She handed me her phone. I downloaded WebNovel, searched my account—hidden under the pen name Yè Xīn—and pulled up my book.
"She: A Spark & a Heartbreak? Only fifty chapters?" she said, already reading the synopsis.
I nodded, my throat tight. God, someone is reading my work. With interest.
She took her phone back with a soft smile. "Thank you. At least this will comfort me."
I smiled back—a real one. My eyes stung with the tears I'd cried earlier into my blanket.
Is this what being an author feels like? Someone reading words everyone else calls useless?
I watched her leave. For the first time that day, my shoulders felt lighter.
After work, I picked up my phone. The screen was fixed. But there's no mechanic in the world who can fix a broken heart.
I went to a café and sent the story to an editor named Abbieka—an American editor known for helping broken authors like me.
I sipped my coffee. It tasted bitter, though not from the beans. I tried not to dwell on my father's words. Negativity only breeds more.
My phone buzzed. A message.
It was about adjustments—the hook wasn't clear, the pacing dragged.
She wrote:
I make every story matter. But you need to hook a reader in five minutes. Your story is good—I feel it. But readers want easier themes now. Make it clearer. This isn't rejection. It's just adjustment.
I sighed and agreed.
The Wi-Fi was slow. Home was worse. Still, I opened WebNovel. It took a moment to load.
Then—notifications?
Two of them.
Someone saved my book. A power stone.
It had been a month since I'd gained a follower.
A fragile happiness bloomed in me—the kind I'd never feel even if I were the perfect daughter my parents wanted.
I opened them.
[Saki Sama has sent a power stone to She: A Spark & a Heartbreak]
[Someone has added your book to their library]
I stared.
The screen glowed softly in my hands.
For the first time all day, the cold in my bones didn't feel quite so deep.
Maybe this curse of mine—this need to write, to feel, to love in secret—wasn't just a burden.
Maybe it was also a bridge.
And maybe, just maybe, someone was waiting on the other side.