Monday came too soon.
All weekend, I kept checking the email, half expecting it to disappear, half hoping it wouldn't. It stayed there — bold and solid, sitting like a quiet miracle in my inbox.
By Sunday night, I still hadn't figured out what to wear.
My wardrobe was a sad lineup of thrift-store finds — faded jeans, baggy sweaters, a few secondhand shirts that had definitely lived fuller lives before reaching me.
In the end, I picked the cleanest white shirt I owned, paired it with dark jeans and a blazer that didn't quite fit at the shoulders.
I stood in front of the mirror, trying to look confident, but my reflection looked like someone playing dress-up in a stranger's life.
Still, it would have to do.
That morning, I woke up before sunrise. I'd barely slept anyway. The cold air bit through my thin coat as I stepped outside, clutching the printed email like it was a passport to another world.
The city felt different that morning — louder somehow, brighter. I'd always seen the glass buildings downtown from a distance, glittering like promises I wasn't meant to touch. But today, I was walking toward them.
Every step closer to the address made my stomach twist tighter.
When I finally stopped in front of the building, I had to tilt my head all the way back just to take it in. The sign above the revolving glass doors read BLAKE'S MEDIA PUBLISHING GROUP in bold silver letters that caught the morning light.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring.
It felt like I didn't belong — like at any second, someone would come out, take one look at me, and say, "Sorry, wrong person."
But no one did.
Inside, the lobby was all marble floors and golden light. The kind of place that smelled like money and fresh coffee. People in sleek suits walked briskly past me, their heels clicking like clockwork.
I clutched my tote bag tighter, afraid even the sound of my shoes might be too loud here.
At the reception desk, a woman with perfect curls smiled politely. "Good morning. How may I help you?"
"Uh… I'm here for the internship orientation?" I said, trying to sound sure of myself. "For the publishing department."
She tapped a few keys, her nails clicking against the keyboard like rain. "Name, please?"
I told her, and after a second, she nodded. "Yes, you're on the list. Orientation starts on the tenth floor, conference room B. Elevators are to your left."
I thanked her and turned toward the elevators, my heart pounding.
As I stepped in, I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall — nervous, small, holding on to a bag full of secondhand notebooks and hope.
When the elevator doors opened, I stepped into a hallway that looked straight out of a dream.
Glass offices lined the walls, filled with people tapping away on laptops, brainstorming on whiteboards, and sipping lattes like their lives depended on it.
For a second, I forgot to breathe.
Conference Room B was halfway down the corridor. I slipped inside quietly, trying not to draw attention. About ten other interns were already there — all neatly dressed, with sleek laptops and expensive pens.
I sank into a chair near the back.
A woman in a sharp navy suit stood at the front, flipping through a tablet. Her name tag read Ms. Claire – Senior Editor. She looked the way I imagined authority would look if it wore heels.
"Good morning, everyone," she began. "Welcome to Blake's Media. You're here because your work stood out. Whether you're a writer, an editor, or a creative thinker, you've been chosen for your potential."
The word chosen made something flutter in my chest.
She continued explaining how the internship would work — rotations through departments, weekly assignments, mentorship sessions. I tried to take notes, but my hand was trembling.
I couldn't stop thinking about that name — Blake's Media.
It echoed in my mind like a whisper I couldn't quite catch.
Was it really just a coincidence?
Could it somehow be connected to the guy from the subway?
No. That didn't make sense. Adrian Blake had been wearing a fast-food uniform, for goodness' sake. He didn't look like someone who owned this.
Still, my brain kept trying to connect the dots.
The email came right after I met him.
He'd bought my stories — the only person I'd ever given them to.
And now, a company with his name on it suddenly wanted me?
Coincidence, I told myself. Total coincidence.
Halfway through the session, Ms. Claire's tablet buzzed. She glanced at it, then smiled. "Before we continue, our Creative Director will be joining us for a brief introduction."
The room straightened instantly. People fixed their hair, adjusted their collars.
I didn't even know what to do — was I supposed to stand? Smile?
The door opened.
And in walked him.
At first, I didn't recognize him.
He wasn't wearing the green-and-yellow uniform from the subway. Instead, he wore a charcoal gray suit that looked like it cost more than my rent for the year. His hair was neatly styled, but still had that same unruly edge. And those eyes — blue, striking, impossible to forget.
For a second, my brain froze.
I blinked. Then blinked again.
No way.
He smiled at Ms. Claire, then turned to the group. "Good morning, everyone. I'm Adrian Blake — Creative Director here at Blake's Media."
Every word after that faded into background noise.
He started talking about creativity, storytelling, the importance of perspective — but all I could hear was the pounding in my chest.
Adrian Blake.
That Adrian Blake.
He didn't look at me. Not once. His gaze moved evenly across the room as if we were all strangers — which, technically, we were.
Maybe he didn't remember me. Maybe I was just one of hundreds of faces he'd seen in passing.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that the universe was playing some kind of cosmic joke on me.
When the session ended, everyone crowded around him — shaking his hand, introducing themselves, trying to make an impression. I stayed seated, pretending to organize my notes, my heart still beating far too fast.
Then, as he turned to leave, he paused for half a second — his eyes flickering in my direction.
It wasn't long enough to mean anything.
Or maybe it was too long to mean nothing.
Either way, he didn't say a word. He just gave a polite nod to the room and walked out, leaving the faintest trace of his cologne in the air — clean, quiet, like winter rain.
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
I filled out forms, met my assigned mentor, and tried to absorb everything without letting my nerves show.
By 5 p.m., my brain felt like it had run a marathon.
Outside, the city glowed gold under the setting sun. I stood on the sidewalk clutching my tote bag, replaying the day in my mind.
The subway guy was THE Adrian Blake.
The Creative Director. The brains behind one of the biggest publishing empires in the country.
But if that was true, why hadn't he said anything back then?
Why pretend to be someone else?
The questions piled up like unwritten pages in my head.
Maybe it really was a coincidence — maybe he just looked like Adrian Blake. Maybe I was just imagining the whole thing because I wanted a story where something miraculous happened to me.
People like me didn't meet billionaires in subways.
People like me didn't get handpicked internships.
That only happened in books.
And yet… here I was.
I walked back toward the subway, the same one where I'd met him, my steps echoing against the cold tile floors.
The bench where I'd first sat with my notepad was empty now, except for a coffee cup someone had left behind.
I sat down, the same way I had that night, and for a moment, everything came full circle.
Maybe life didn't hand out explanations right away.
Maybe it wanted me to keep reading — to stay curious, to keep turning pages even when I didn't understand the plot.
I didn't know why I was here or what any of it meant, but one thing was certain —
my story wasn't over.
It was only just beginning.