THE FIRST CHAPTER
Aarav is unaware of the background ticking of the clock. His heart is racing with excitement as his fingers move across the keyboard. With every movement of the cursor, the dim brightness from his laptop screen creates lengthy patterns that flicker across the room. His mind is entirely absorbed in the cosmos he is building, one that is the result of pure lust and wild imagination.
"This is it. This is my tale.
Scattered notes, some marked out in frustration, some composed with half-formed ideas, cover the desk like falling leaves. The floor is covered in crumpled documents, evidence of rewritten hopes and abandoned ideas.
In the air, the smell of ink and paper mixes with the faint smell of old coffee. As though the night itself were whispering thoughts into his ear, a chilly breeze rustles the edges of his notebook as it enters through the slightly open window.
Aarav leans forward, his pulse rapid and his breath thin. Being a writer has always been his dream. His escape into fantastical realms, where heroes defied fate and villains bore pains deeper than scars, has been a source of comfort for him since he was a young boy. He recalls reading beneath the desk and stealing novels into class when he needed to have been focused.
Every narrative he ever loved cut fragments into his soul, and every word he ever read fashioned him. It is now his turn.Before typing the opening sentence of his book, his fingers stay on the keyboard for a single more second:
"Fire and sorrow were painted in the sky."
On the screen, the words beat like a heartbeat. He stops and reads them again. That one line weighs more than he anticipated, pressing down on his chest.
"That's great, damn it!" A mixture of pride and excitement burns in his veins as his smile expands. He shakes off the tension by cracking his knuckles. "Let's take action."
The world is quiet outside and the night is long, but inside these four walls—in his mind—a whole cosmos is about to come into being.
Each click is a heartbeat, every line is a breath of life, and Aarav writes with an irrepressible energy, his enthusiasm pouring onto the computer like anguish. His hero is bold, daring, the kind of hero who faces insurmountable obstacles and doesn't give up—everything he wishes he could be. A warrior of words, shaped by his despair and dreams.
He is creating a world that seems authentic. He can hear the sound of swords clashing, the wind whispering across old ruins, and the private confessions of characters who aren't yet aware that they are in love. His imagined world grows outside the confines of his little, chaotic room, the plot becomes more complex with each each sound, and the characters take their first weak steps into the real world.
And then—his cell buzzes.
📩 [Riya: Are you free today, baby? Come on, let's go!
Aarav's thumb rests over the notification while he looks at the screen. He feels a twinge of shame, but it passes as fast. He locks the phone without answering, but he gives a slight smile.
Not right now. This is a unique day.
I apologize, Riya. I'm creating my legacy today.
When he puts his headphones back on, his playlist bursts into life, an eruption of electric guitar, drumming, and words that spark his spirit. His excitement is boosted by the music, which drowns out the outside world perfectly matches the rhythm of his typing. The words flow like a stream through his fingertips, which move at rapid pace, drawing him more into the narrative.
Time loses its meaning. Minutes turn into hours. The outer world fades into the background, including his phone, friends, and responsibilities. This moment, this sensation, this constant, all-consuming need to build something that will last past him are all that exist.
At last, he reclines and takes a deep breath. He doesn't care that his arms hurt and his eyes burn from too much screen time. We are now three chapters in. An entire cosmos has yet to be written.
And he has no intention of stopping.
His desk is painted a bright gold by the sunlight that pours in through his window. Dust particles float languidly in the light, dancing, seemingly torn between reality and fantasies. Rubbing his tired eyes, Aarav lies on his chair. Hours of typing have left his fingers stiff, but his mind is still racing and full of wild ideas.
He gets up, stretches, and enters his tiny balcony. He is greeted by cool morning air that seems like a whisper of encouragement across his face. The world below continues on, completely unaware of the universe he has been building all night. People chuckle, kids run after one another along the winding streets, and the distant buzz of traffic becomes part of the city's constant melody.
Everything feels just right for the first time in a long time.
Aarav takes a deep breath, allowing the moment to seep into his bones as he fills his lungs with fresh air. He writes because of this—this emotion. the possibility of something bigger. the excitement of making things. the hope that one day his words will change everything—not just this small room or these streets.
As he observes the world below, a tiny smile curls his lips.
"One day, they'll all read my stories."
He shakes his head and laughs. "I seem like an insane person."
But isn't it the essence of being a writer? A little out of control? A bit of an obsession? Lost a little in worlds that nobody else can see?
He laughs at the concept. He quickly returns inside after finishing his last sip of cold coffee. He sits with his fingers aching to type as his chair creaks. His thoughts are a flurry of scenarios, conversations, and feelings that beg to be expressed.
Now there's no turning back.
It's time to write more.
Even though it is two in the morning, Aarav is restless. Hours ago, time lost its significance. The brightness from his laptop screen is the only source of light in his room, creating unsettling shadows on the walls. His eyes burn and his fingers hurt, but the fire within him won't go out.
He's in the zone, that uncommon, almost mystical state where the tale is all that matters and the outside world vanishes.
He speaks with ease, as though his thoughts are immediately linked to the screen. His main character faces heartbreak, deceit, and endless challenges. Each keystroke has the feel of an unfiltered emotional pulse. Everything is felt by Aarav, including the pain, the desperation, and the stubborn will to persevere. He seems to be living the narrative.
In his mind, characters scream their truths and demand to be heard. Scenes play out in front of him as if he were concurrently directing and watching a movie. Losing himself in the heat of invention, he types like a man possessed.
Hours pass in the blink of an eye.
Then—at last—he pauses.
His shaking fingers hover over the keyboard. He tries to comprehend what just transpired as he scrolls back up and scans the screen.
Eleven chapters.
Eleven.
His pulse becomes faster. He gasps. His thoughts are racing.
This is true.
He slowly releases his breath as he reclines in his chair. He feels the pull of exhaustion, but it is overpowered by excitement. His soul is alive, but his body is exhausted.
He was destined to accomplish this.
The familiar chime rings in Aarav's ears as he hits Save. A pleased smile spreads across his face as he leans back and stretches his rigid arms. The fire in his chest is far worse than the fatigue that weighs on his body.
Then—
A gentle chime. He gets a notification on his screen.
🔔 "Well done! You can now apply for a contract that is exclusive to you.
He gasps. On the desk, his fingers become immobile. His eyes widen with exhaustion as he reads the sentences again, his mind unable to comprehend what has just transpired.
No.
Every time his heart beats, it gets louder in his chest. To be sure, he reads it once more. The words remain the same. They give him a genuine and convincing look in return.
This was the conclusion of the long nights, the sore fingers, and the unrelenting quest for a dream.
With a sudden exhale, he lets out a silent, panting laugh.
"No way."
But he knows in his heart.
He succeeded.
This is true.
What about his dream?
It's going to start.