Ethan's manuscripts had been rejected more times than he could count, each letter a dagger to his pride. Publishers' notes were polite but cruelly impersonal: "Not marketable," "Lacks originality." He understood the words, yet they did not soften the blow. Sitting alone on the cold wooden floor, he wondered if the world had ever truly wanted him to succeed, or if he had only been fooling himself all along.
He remembered Lila, the woman he loved in silence. She had believed in him once, encouraging him to chase stories instead of societal stability. But as years passed, Ethan's failures weighed too heavily, and Lila left, choosing security over dreams she could no longer share. That absence haunted him more than rejection letters ever could. Each word he wrote for her in secret, every unsent letter, was a testament to his unrequited devotion and unfulfilled potential.
Despite the agony, Ethan could not stop writing. The act was both salvation and curse; it reminded him of what he could be, only to prove what he would never achieve. Nights became battles with despair, days spent in silent wandering, watching life pass without him. The pen in his hand was heavier than any sword, and the weight of dreams deferred crushed him gradually. His world had become a library of sorrow, a mausoleum of words that would never meet eyes willing to love them.