Chapter 2

The interview had gone the same way they all did—polite smiles, nodding heads, empty promises.

“We’ll get back to you soon,” the woman at the desk had said, her voice smooth, rehearsed. I knew what it meant. Another rejection letter would land in my inbox within the week, maybe sooner. I had lost count of how many times I’d heard those words.

I walked out of the office building with my résumé folder clutched tight against my chest, as if holding it close would stop the ache inside me. My heels clicked against the pavement, steady and hollow, echoing in the gray afternoon.

The fastest way back to my apartment was over the old iron bridge that stretched across the river. The wind was sharp there, cutting through my thin jacket, and the water below churned, dark and restless. I usually avoided looking down, but today, something caught my eye.

A man stood near the edge.

Not just standing—leaning forward slightly, his hands resting on the cold railing, his posture tense.

My heart stumbled. The thought came instantly, unbidden. He’s going to jump.

For a second, I froze. People passed by, their footsteps quick, their eyes forward. No one else seemed to notice. Or maybe they didn’t care.

I did.

I don’t know what possessed me, but my legs moved before I could think. My hand shot out, grabbing his arm. “Stop!” I blurted, my voice sharp in the empty air.

The man turned, startled, his eyes wide. He looked younger than I expected, his dark hair tossed by the wind, his expression unreadable.

I didn’t let go. The words poured out of me, messy, desperate, too raw to stop.

“You can’t do this,” I said, my voice trembling but firm. “Whatever it is, whatever you’re going through—it doesn’t end this way. It can’t.”

He blinked at me, confused, but I pressed on, the floodgates in me bursting open.

“You think I don’t know what it feels like to want to give up? To feel like the world has chewed you up and spat you out? Like nothing you do will ever be enough? I know that feeling. I live it. Every day.” My grip tightened on his sleeve. “But if you jump—if you end it—you’ll never know if tomorrow might have been the day everything changed.”

The man said nothing. He just stared, his eyes fixed on me, as if trying to make sense of the storm I was unleashing.

My throat ached, but I didn’t stop. “I’ve lost everything. My family. My job. My place in the world. I’ve been rejected, abandoned, left with nothing but silence in a cold apartment. Some nights, I wonder what the point of all of it is. But I’m still here. Do you hear me? I’m still here.”

The wind whipped my hair into my face, but I didn’t care. My voice rose, raw and unpolished.

“If you think ending your life will end the pain, you’re wrong. Pain doesn’t vanish—it just transfers. To your mother, your father, your friends, the people who might never recover from losing you. Do you really want to hand your suffering to them?”

Finally, I let go of his arm, my chest heaving. My hands trembled as I whispered the last words.

“Don’t let despair decide for you. Fight it. Even if it tears you apart. Even if you feel like you’re drowning. Just… fight.”

The silence stretched. The man’s expression softened slightly, though I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Maybe he had never planned on jumping at all. Maybe I had been wrong.

But in that moment, it didn’t matter. For once, my pain had been turned outward. For once, I had found my voice.

And strangely, as I walked away, the river behind me roaring in the wind, I realized something:

Maybe I had been talking to him.

Or maybe… I had really been talking to myself.

🖤

By the time I reached my apartment, my legs felt like lead. The bridge, the stranger, the words I had hurled into the wind—they clung to me, draining me in ways I couldn’t explain.

I didn’t bother turning on the lights. The room was as I had left it: curtains half-closed, dishes piled in the sink, silence pressing against the walls. I dropped my folder onto the table and sank onto the bed without changing my clothes.

The exhaustion was bone-deep. My eyes burned, my chest felt heavy, and for once, I didn’t have the strength to think about résumés or rejection letters. The city hummed faintly outside my window, but it was like a lullaby I couldn’t resist. Within minutes, I slipped into sleep.

It wasn’t peaceful. My dreams were jumbled, fragments of my brother’s laughter, my mother’s voice, the stranger’s face on the bridge. And underneath it all, the river, dark and endless, pulling me down.

When I finally stirred, the pale light of morning had already crept into my room. I groaned and reached for my phone on the nightstand, half-expecting the usual emptiness.

Instead, the screen glared back at me—flooded with notifications.

My heart stuttered.

One message. Then another. And another. All from the same company.

Starlight Publishing.

A name I knew well. A name everyone in the literary world knew. They weren’t just any publishing house—they were the publishing house. The ones who shaped bestsellers, who discovered voices the world adored.

I blinked hard, certain I was still dreaming. But the messages were real.

Good morning, Miss Lucia. We have reviewed your résumé and would like to invite you for an interview.
Please confirm your availability at the earliest.
This position is for Senior Editor, based in our central office.
We believe your skillset aligns strongly with what we’re looking for.

My hands trembled as I scrolled through the string of texts. This wasn’t one of those small firms that “regretted to inform me.” This was Starlight.

The very company I had dreamed of working for when I first began my career. The one I had told myself I’d never have a chance with.

And yet—here it was.

I sat frozen on the edge of my bed, the phone buzzing in my hand. A part of me wanted to cry, another part wanted to laugh, but mostly, I just couldn’t believe it.

Was this real? Or was the universe playing another cruel trick?

I whispered to the empty room, my voice shaking. “Is this… my luck?”

The phone buzzed again, another reminder. Please confirm your availability, Miss Lucia.

This time, I didn’t hesitate. My fingers flew across the screen, typing the only word I could manage.

Yes.

I couldn’t stop staring at the phone. Even after sending my confirmation, I kept reopening the message thread, rereading the words as though they might dissolve if I looked away too long.

Senior Editor. Starlight Publishing.

It sounded like a dream someone else should be living. Not me—the girl with rejection letters stacked higher than her rent receipts. Not me—the unlucky one who always tripped just before the finish line.

But the email was real. The time, the address, everything.

I rose from bed with a sudden rush of nervous energy, pacing the length of my tiny apartment. My hair was a mess, my clothes wrinkled from last night’s sleep. I didn’t own anything that screamed “prestigious publishing house,” only a few plain blouses and an old navy skirt that still held a faint coffee stain at the hem.

I pulled it out anyway. Maybe with a blazer draped over it, no one would notice.

The mirror was less forgiving. The dark circles under my eyes seemed etched into my skin, and no amount of cold water could wash away the years of fatigue carved into me. I tried on a smile, but it looked strange—like a mask I wasn’t used to wearing anymore.

Still, I whispered to my reflection, “You’re going. Even if you fail, you’re going.”

I spent the next hours combing through my old editing samples, polishing my résumé for the hundredth time, and rehearsing answers to questions I feared they’d ask. Why so many gaps in your employment history? Why haven’t you worked for a major company before?

The truth sat heavy in my chest: Because no one gave me a chance.

I wrote and rewrote possible responses until my notebook was filled with scribbles and crossed-out sentences. Nothing sounded convincing enough.

At one point, I sat back in my chair, pressing my palms over my face. What if this is just another cruel twist?

But then I remembered the stranger on the bridge—the way I had spoken to him, fiercely, desperately, telling him that life wasn’t done with him yet.

Maybe those words weren’t just for him. Maybe they were for me too.

By evening, my apartment was a battlefield of discarded clothes, printouts, and coffee cups. I finally settled on a simple outfit, neat but not glamorous, and packed my folder with carefully chosen work samples.

When I lay down that night, sleep refused to come. My heart thudded too loudly, my mind replaying every possible outcome. Success. Failure. Laughter. Rejection.

But one thought cut through all the noise:

Tomorrow, I walk into Starlight Publishing. For once, I have a chance.