Evening settled in like a sigh. Masti had just closed her laptop, the last work email sent without a second thought. Her eyes burned, her back ached, but she didn’t move right away.

Her phone buzzed.

Tara 💬

Hey! You free for lunch this weekend? Been way too long! What’s new with you these days? 👀

Masti smiled. Tara was one of her constants—a friend from her early twenties who knew her before the job titles, the burnout, the spirals into fictional worlds. They didn’t talk every day, but when they did, it always felt like home.

She tapped out a reply:

Yes. Let’s do Saturday? I’d love to catch up.
Not much new… but maybe something soon?

A typing bubble appeared. Then stopped. Then came back again.

Tara 💬

👀 Suspiciously vague! I’m intrigued.
Can’t wait. You better spill.

Masti chuckled, then tossed her phone onto the couch, curling up beside it.

Her heart flickered with something unfamiliar—anticipation.
Maybe she did want to talk about her writing.
Maybe she wanted someone in the real world to know what she was feeling, even if just a little.

She imagined herself saying it out loud:

“I’ve been thinking about writing again. Maybe even… switching careers.”

The image thrilled and terrified her.

And then—like a cloud blocking out the sun—doubt rolled in.

She had a good salary. Stability. A life people envied.
Writing was unpredictable. Competitive. Often unpaid.
How would she even start? Who would take her seriously at this age?

The spark from that morning dimmed slightly under the weight of those thoughts.

But then another voice—quieter, steadier—rose in her.

You don’t have to leap.
You can build.
You can begin.

She breathed in.

Yes. She didn’t have to burn her bridges. She could start writing. Build a portfolio. Learn. Try. Just try.

And when she met Tara for lunch, maybe she’d say just enough to let the dream be real—spoken, not just scribbled in silence.

For now, that was enough.

She reached for her laptop and opened the blank Notepad file again.

A sentence waited.