The email came at 11:42 a.m.

A quiet little ping, the kind that doesn’t shake the room but manages to rearrange everything inside you.

I saw the subject line before opening it—that cold, professional punctuation that said:

“Thank you for your submission.”

My heart stuttered. Not a full beat—just a flicker.

I knew that flicker. That flutter. The one your heart does when bracing itself for impact.

For weeks, I had let myself imagine it. The email. The one that called my writing “urgent,” or “essential,” or even “remarkable.” The one that said, “We want to publish your book.“

I had allowed myself to dream through the timeline: the announcement on Instagram, the first look at the cover design, my name on the spine of a book that would sit—bold and proud—on a “New Voices” table at some indie bookstore in Brooklyn or Baltimore or Brixton. Someone picking it up, turning it over in their hands, maybe reading the first page and deciding to take me home.

I imagined my sister showing it to her friends.

I imagined walking past it in an airport and pretending not to cry. 

I clicked the message.

“Thank you for submitting your manuscript to us. Your work is beautifully written and deeply affecting. Unfortunately…”

I stopped reading.

I didn’t need the rest. I knew what followed.

I sat there for a while, my laptop warm against my thighs, the words burning colder than expected. Not angry. Not even sad, exactly. Just… emptied. Like someone had quietly come into the room and turned off the light.

The world didn’t pause to mark the moment.

Outside my window, a man walked his dog. A USPS truck pulled up in the driveway. The world kept going.

But I? I didn’t move.

Not for a long time.

Eventually, I stood. Showered. Pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with a quote I didn’t have the energy to believe in. Brushed my brows into place. Eyelashes. Lip gloss. Earrings. Laughed once—hollow—at how heartbreak in publishing doesn’t even have the decency to be loud.

We had plans—Ndidi, Karla, Vicente, and I. Bowling and drinks in Lancaster. I wasn’t going to cancel. I’ve learned to tuck the bleeding parts in, to smile despite the sting. I’ve learned that people don’t always know what to do with quiet sadness.

I found them quickly—my tribe. My safe people.

Ndidi was halfway through a strawberry daiquiri, her smile wide and full of something I hadn’t felt in a while: hope.

“I met someone,” she beamed as soon as I walked up. No hello. No preamble. Just joy—raw and unfiltered.

Karla let out a mock gasp. “Ndidi! How long have you been holding out on us?”

I hugged them both, murmuring something I hoped sounded like happy for you, then slid into the booth beside Vicente, who gave me a side glance like he already knew something was off.

“He’s not like the others,” Ndidi went on, twirling her straw, eyes infectiously dreamy. “He listens. He asks about my day. He reads—actual books! With spine and all. Plus, he’s not trying to move to Canada.”

Vicente raised his glass. “To men who read and stay in the country.”

We all clinked glasses, and I tried to match their energy. I laughed in the right places, nodded when expected, even teased Vicente when he launched into a story about a woman who had catfished him with six-year-old photos and a dubious “oil business.”

All I could think about was that rejection.

About the line in the letter that said they admired my voice but didn’t see a market for the story. My story. How I had carried these stories for years, believing they deserved to live outside of me. How publishing keeps telling people like me—people with names like mine, voices like mine—that our stories are good, but not marketable. Moving, but not timely.

Beautiful, but not quite right.

“I’ve been thinking of adopting,” Karla said casually. That got my attention. Even Vicente blinked.

“I’m serious,” she said, her fingers curled around the sweating glass. “I’m tired of waiting. For the right man. The right time. I want something to love. Someone to fight for.”

Something in me cracked a little.

I nodded, maybe a little too fast, said something like, “That’s brave,” even though I wanted to scream—what happens when you’ve given everything and still come up empty?

“I’m convinced I’m just a character in someone’s healing journey,” Vicente said, sipping his drink.

We laughed. Or they did.

We all hugged Karla. Uttering varing renditions of “go for it, girlie.” Gave her the flowers she deserved. 

We bowled after that. I went through the motions. Laughed when the ball veered into the gutter, cheered for Ndidi’s strike, groaned at Vicente’s smugness. While everything inside of me wilted.

They didn’t ask what was wrong. Maybe they knew. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they thought I was just tired. In a way, I was. Tired of trying. Tired of being close but not quite. Tired of dating men who disappeared after three dates, of sending stories into the void, of hoping.

I drove home alone, the night pressing in. I thought of the draft I’d been working on, now orphaned by rejection. I thought of all the love I had to give, all the stories tucked into my skin, and wondered if anyone would ever want them.

When I got home, I kicked off my shoes, pulled off the lashes, and opened my laptop again—out of habit more than hope.

A notification blinked at me: New comment on your blog post.

I clicked it, expecting spam or that silencing word “Nice.”

Instead, I found this:

“I just read this and I’m floored. Your writing has always had this way of making the quiet things loud. Hope you’re doing okay. Would love to catch up.”

-Mayorkun.

My heart stopped.

Mayorkun.

Mayorkun from senior year? Mayorkun with the crooked smile and the even straighter back. The boy who once defended me in Literature class when I said Buchi Emecheta wrote heartbreak better than romance. The boy who represented the school in chess competitions.

We never dated. We were barely friends. But there were moments. Lingering looks. Soft, sharp exchanges that made my heart trip over itself in English class.

And now, years later, he had found me—not through Instagram or gossip, but through my words.

I clicked on his name, saw the email he’d left. My reflection stared back at me in the dark screen, barefaced and blinking.

I didn’t think. I typed.

Subject: Re: Your Comment

Mayorkun!
Wow. It’s been years. Thank you for reading. I wasn’t expecting this. Let me know what you’ve been up to—I’d love to catch up.”

I hit send before I could overthink it.

He replied that same night. Facetimed even.

His voice was the same—familiar, grounding, still wrapped in that calm confidence that once made me forget how to breathe. We talked. Slowly. Carefully. Like two people remembering how to speak.

And somehow, in those quiet exchanges, I found something I didn’t know I needed.

Not love.
Not rescue.
But recognition.

He reminded me that someone once saw the fire in me. Before the publishing houses. Before the rejections. Before the algorithms and the constant chasing of a “platform.”

He reminded me that my stories still matter.

I slept that night—not with hope, exactly.
But with a flicker.
A breath.
A beginning.

Because even in the quiet weight of almost, something beautiful can still unfold.