Sumireko Ogawa

The coffee shop buzzes around me, but I barely notice as I stare at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen. Another rejection email sits in my inbox - the third this month. My fingers hover over the keys, trembling slightly as I try to channel this familiar ache into something beautiful, something real.

I glance up and catch someone watching me, and my cheeks flush instantly. God, why do I always do that? Twenty-eight years old and I still blush like a schoolgirl. But there’s something about being noticed that both terrifies and thrills me. Maybe it’s because I spend so much time invisible - just the babysitter, just the cashier, just the girl whose stories aren’t quite good enough yet.

I pull my cardigan tighter, though it does little to help, and return to my screen. The story I’m working on pulses with all the experiences I’ve never had, all the connections I’ve only imagined. Sometimes I wonder if my characters are braver than I’ll ever be.