~^RYEN^~
I woke up from a dream I couldn't remember.
My body knew I'd been dreaming—the kind where your soul feels bruised and your chest is tight, like something tragic happened inside your mind while you slept. But my brain refused to hand over the details. Just a blank page where the memory should've been. Which was oddly worse.
I blinked up at the ceiling for a moment longer than necessary before swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The cheap sheet clung to my calf like it didn't want to let me go either.
A single minute. That's all I gave myself for mornings. A quick stretch—arms up, back crack, slow inhale. Not because I was disciplined or healthy or any of that Instagram-worthy nonsense. I just knew if I lay around too long, I'd start thinking again.
And thinking was a dangerous sport when your reality felt more like a punishment than a life.
I padded into the bathroom and brushed my teeth with the water running just loud enough to drown out the silence. My reflection looked tired. Always did. Big brown eyes, messy hair that hadn't seen a straightener in a week, and a hint of last night's mascara clinging to my lower lashes like a bad habit.
Afterward, I reheated the leftovers I brought home from work. The orange juice was the only fresh thing in the fridge. I poured a glass and held it up to the light, trying to convince myself it was a luxury. Breakfast of champions.
Microwave beeped. I slid the plastic container out, steam rising with that same smell I'd carried home on my clothes—grease, fried meat, onions. I should've been sick of it by now. Maybe I was. But food was food, and rent was rent.
I carried my meal to the couch, balancing it on my knee as I grabbed my phone and unlocked it. Just a quick scroll, I told myself. Just to check.
I tapped the Medium app, not really expectinganything to change.
Still 782 followers.
Still no new messages.Still no gigs.
Three years ago, I thought this account would save me. Back in high school, I used to write anonymous short stories on Facebook. Romance, drama, even fanfiction. I'd post every week, and people actually read it. Like, a lot of people. My posts would get hundreds of comments, thousands of likes, shares, people begging for the next part.
For a while, it felt like I'd found my thing. Like I wasn't just surviving. I was building something.
Then someone hacked the account. Wiped everything. Took my words and posted them under a fake name. I reported it, begged Facebook to give it back. They didn't. No one cared.
So I opened a Medium account. Told myself it'd be better—clean, professional, all mine.
But by then, I was already unable to attend college and juggling three part-time jobs. The passion was still there, but the time? The energy?
Ghostwriting was supposed to be the answer. Write in secret. Get paid. No pressure, no fame. Just words.
But most people wanted clickbait or SEO junk, and I wasn't good at selling myself. I hated pitching. Hated cold emails. Hated having to prove my worth to people who didn't even understand what made a sentence beautiful.
I scrolled through my own page. My last post was from six weeks ago. A short piece about loneliness wrapped in metaphors and a question that never got answered.
The kind of writing that made me feel human.
The kind that didn't pay the bills.
I sighed, balancing my plate on the edge of the couch and letting my phone drop onto the cushion beside me. The room felt too quiet again. The air conditioner rattled once, then fell still. A distant dog barked. I took another sip of orange juice and stared at the cracked ceiling.
Maybe next week, I thought.
Maybe next week I'll have time to write something real.
Or maybe I'd just keep microwaving leftovers and swallowing words I didn't have the space to say.
I stared at my phone like it was an enemy I wasn't quite ready to fight.
Then I picked it back up.My thumb hovered over the "Write a new story" button like it might bite me.
Come on, Ryen. Just try.
Not for anyone else. Not for followers. Just for yourself.
The blinking cursor waited for me like an old friend I hadn't called in too long.I didn't even think this time. I didn't plan or outline or ask myself if it was worth it. I just started typing.
> Title: The Kind of Tired That Doesn't Sleep Away
> By: nerd_writer
Yeah. That was still my handle. I came up with it as a joke in senior year after a teacher called me a "bookish little know-it-all" in front of the whole class. I was too broke for therapy, so I weaponized it into a username. Felt less painful that way.
I wrote like my fingers were on autopilot.
> There's a tired that sleep doesn't fix. The kind where your body moves, but your heart is parked in neutral. Where you get through the day, but every hour costs more than it's worth.
> You try so hard. For years, you keep trying. Because you think maybe something good will come out of all this trying. But what if it doesn't? What if all the trying is the trap? What if you're just climbing a ladder that goes nowhere?
Still, you wake up. You stretch. You brush your teeth. You reheat your food and check your phone. Because even if you're tired, even if you're done, the world expects you to pretend you're not.
I paused, blinking back the sting behind my eyes. Not tears. Just… pressure.
This wasn't my best piece. It wasn't polished. It didn't have a clever ending. But it was honest.And honesty had to count for something.I hit Publish before I could change my mind. The confirmation screen blinked once, then disappeared.It was done.
A soft breath escaped me. Not relief exactly. Just... space. Like I'd made room for something in my chest that had been compressed for days.
I glanced at the post now sitting at the top of my page.
One like. Probably a bot.
Didn't matter.
I shut off my phone and tucked it under the couch cushion like it might judge me if I left it in plain sight.Then I picked up my now-cold leftovers again and resumed eating like nothing had changed.
But something had.
Something small. Quiet.Like a match flicked on in a room full of darkness.