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Sienna’s POV
An editor from the publishing branch I work with was meeting me in town. It wasn’t an official appointment, just a kind offer from people who knew I was in the city. But I understood the real reason-they wanted to
check in on my manuscript’s progress.
I straightened the light brown zer I’d hung up the night before. It wasn’t something I often wore, but I didn’t
want to look disheveled. I wanted to appear… okay, even if it was just a mask.
I twisted my hair up with a simple clip and sprayed a little perfume on my neck. When I looked back in the
mirror, I took a deep breath. My chest felt heavy, as if something was weighing me down.
But I had to go.
A nervous feeling crept into my body. Maybe it was the fear of the questions they might ask-about the
manuscript, about Noah, about this new life. I didn’t know what answers I could give.
I grabbed my bag and slipped theptop inside, along with a small notebook I hadn’t touched since I moved. My
hand paused when I saw a small photo on the table-a picture of me and Noah that I kept beside the bed. His
smile in that photo was so sincere. So innocent. God, I missed him.
The sudden urge to turn on my phone came rushing in. But I held back. I wasn’t ready. Not yet. I didn’t even
know how I would cope if I heard his voice. Or worse, if there were no messages at all.
My steps out of the apartment felt heavy. The morning air by the beach was soft and cool, but it wasn’t enough to calm the growing anxiety inside me. I hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to the city center, to the café we had
agreed on.
Inside the car, I sat in silence, watching the streets pass by. It felt strange, seeing the world go on as usual-as
if nothing had changed. But inside me, so much had fallen apart.
I took another deep breath and whispered in my mind, “Stay calm, Sienna. You’re just going to talk about your writing. You’re just going to sit there and pretend to be a strong woman. Just for today.”
But somehow, those words didn’t make me feel any calmer.
444
I exhaled slowly as I opened the door to the café. My steps hesitated; my heartbeat was slightly faster than
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usual. The clinking of spoons and quietughter from other guests felt overwhelmingly loud in my ears.
In a corner near the window, I saw a woman sitting neatly with a tablet and organized files in front of her. Her appearance spoke of professionalism, calm, and experience. Sarah-the editor from the head office, now working in this city branch.
I approached her with a polite smile, shaking her hand while trying my best to hide the trembling.
“Thank you for making time, Sarah,” I said softly.
She weed me warmly. No small talk. Once we sat down, I handed her the manuscript I had only just
finishedst night-the first chapter of the project I was supposed to finish for apetition within the next
week.
I watched Sarah as she read. Her eyes moved quickly, focused, and sharp. There was something about the way
she read that made me feel exposed. Not just my writing, but all the feelings I’d been trying to keep neatly
hidden-like she was peeling them backyer byyer.
After a few minutes, she ced the manuscript down gently. Then she looked at me with eyes so honest, I knew
I couldn’t hide anything from her.
“Sienna,” she began softly. “Your writing is good. Technically, there’s nothing wrong. You still have structure,
strong narrative. I can see why the main office chose you as one of the top five.”
I stayed silent. But my heart was bracing itself. I knew what she would say next.
“But this manuscript feels… empty.”
That word echoed in my head like a lingering hum. Empty. I nodded slowly. I knew. I felt it too.
Sarah continued, gently. “It’s not that you can’t write, Sienna. But there’s something missing inside you, and it
shows here. The writing feels breathless. Like someone writing because they have to, not because they want
to.”
I looked down. My hands clutched the fabric of my pants.
“I’m sorry,” my voice barely audible. “I… I know that. But I don’t know how to write anymore. It feels like… I’ve lost myself.”
Sarah was quiet for a moment. She didn’t rush to respond. Her gaze stayed soft, not pressing-just waiting.
“I left my home,” I said atst, almost a whisper. “My husband. My child. Everything. I left because I couldn’t
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take it anymore. But ever since, everything has felt hollow. Even writing.”
The words just flowed. One by one. Forming a truth I hadn’t admitted to anyone-not even to myself.
Sarah nodded slowly.
“You don’t have to be healed to write,” she said softly. “But you have to be honest with your feelings. Whatever you’re going through, all of it can be fuel for your writing. But only if you dare to write from that ce. From
that wound.”
I looked at her. There was something in that sentence that stirred something within me. Whether it was courage, or simply the realization that I could no longer hide my heart behind beautiful, lifeless sentences.
“Sienna, you don’t have to write like anyone else,” Sarah continued. “But you also can’t write like the Sienna of
yesterday if you’re no longer her. Write like the Sienna of today. Even if it means writing with your wounds.”
A long silence followed. But I knew that silence wasn’t an ending. It was the beginning of a new understanding.
I looked at my manuscript, feeling estranged from the words I had once thought were good enough. I wanted to
write again. Not because of deadlines. Not because of apetition. But because there was something inside me
that needed to be said-without masks, without fear, without pretending.
Sarah touched my arm before we parted. “You have time. And you have a voice. Don’t let loss silence you. Use it.
Write with honesty.”
I could only nod. But this time, the nod wasn’t to please anyone. It was a promise. To myself. That I would try. That I would write again-with my wounds, with my longing, with every feeling I had suppressed for so long.
Because maybe… that’s the only way home.
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