Chapter 13
Spring was settling into the new city, and Clara had finally stopped looking for echoes of her old life.
She now knew the main streets, the market hours, the shortcuts to work, and even the habits of certain shopkeepers she greeted regularly.
The apartment had changed too. The boxes had long since disappeared, the shelves were full, and the walls now held a few photographs documenting their first months here.
In her office, Clara had set up a small bookshelf and a plant she’d bought almost on a whim.
It had grown faster than expected, and she loved the image of something fragile gradually finding its place.
Yet despite this apparent stability, she’d felt a familiar worry creeping back over the past few days.
Her manuscript had been sent to several publishers.
Responses were slow to arrive, and the few rejections she’d received had started weighing on her.
She tried not to think about it, but every time her phone rang or a new message appeared in her inbox, her heart raced.
She knew a rejection didn’t mean her book was bad.
She repeated this to Thomas, to her friends, and especially to herself.
But knowing something intellectually and actually feeling it were two different things.
Clara still had that old habit of turning a setback into a judgment about her own worth.
When something didn’t work out, she immediately wondered what was wrong with her.
Thomas noticed the shift in her mood before she even mentioned it. One evening, he came home and found her sitting in front of her computer, staring at a blank page.
“Are you writing?”
“No.”
“Are you thinking?”
“Not even that.”
He set his keys on the table and walked over.
“So what are you doing?”
Clara sighed.
“Waiting.”
“For a response?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been waiting?”
“Too long.”
Thomas sat down next to her.
“You know publishers don’t necessarily respond quickly.”
“I know.”
“So why are you checking your phone every five minutes?”
She shot him a look.
“I’m not checking it every five minutes.”
“Every ten?”
She smiled despite herself.
“Maybe.”
“You’re impatient.”
“I’m mostly worried.”
Thomas was quiet for a moment.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Start with what scares you.”
Clara looked at the screen.
“I’m afraid no one will want my book.”
“And if that were the case?”
“Then I would have worked for nothing.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you learned something by writing it.”
She shook her head gently.
“That’s not enough.”
“For you, maybe not. But that doesn’t mean it’s nothing.”
Clara closed her laptop.
“I just wish someone would tell me it’s good.”
Thomas watched her closely.
“Do you still need someone to tell you that?”
She didn’t answer right away.
“Maybe.”
“Then start by telling yourself.”
She smiled sadly.
“You know that’s harder?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re much harder on yourself than you are on others.”
That remark stayed with her for days. Clara realized she had spent much of her life seeking external validation.
She had wanted to be desired, appreciated, admired, reassured.
She had sometimes confused how others saw her with proof of her own worth.
Even though she had changed profoundly, this pattern hadn’t completely disappeared.
She decided to take a few days away from the manuscript.
She kept up with her work, went out more, and started walking again in the park she loved.
These walks quickly became a ritual. She would leave alone after lunch, without her phone, and simply walk, watching the trees, the passersby, and the children playing.
This solitude no longer frightened her. It no longer meant abandonment.
It had become a space where she could breathe.
One afternoon, she ran into a woman she'd seen several times before in the same spot. They'd exchanged a few smiles but never actually talked. This time, the woman came over.
“You write, don't you?”
Clara was surprised.
“How do you know?”
“I see you with your notebook all the time.”
Clara smiled.
“Yes.”
“Are you a writer?”
She hesitated.
“I'm trying.”
The woman smiled.
“Then you're a writer.”
“Is it that simple?”
“For me, yes.”
They chatted for a few minutes. The woman's name was Jeanne, and she'd worked for years as a teacher before retiring. She wrote short stories herself, though she rarely showed them to anyone.
“Why do you write?” Clara asked.
Jeanne thought about it.
“Because some things are easier to say on paper.”
Clara nodded.
“I understand.”
“And you?”
She looked at her notebook.
“To make sense of things.”
Jeanne smiled at her.
“Then keep at it.”
Clara went home with a strange feeling. The conversation, simple as it was, had lifted something in her.
Jeanne hadn't asked if she'd get published, if her book would be a success, or if she'd make money from her writing.
She'd simply asked why Clara wrote. That question suddenly seemed far more important.
That evening, Thomas found Clara in her office.
“Are you working?”
“No. I'm thinking.”
“This time, really?”
“Yes.”
He sat down.
“About what?”
“Why I write.”
“And did you figure it out?”
“Not completely.”
“Do you want to tell me?”
Clara was quiet for a moment.
“I think I write to make sense of what I've lived through.”
Thomas didn't respond right away.
“That's a good reason.”
“Maybe.”
“And if no one publishes your book?”
“I'll write another one.”
Thomas smiled.
“There you go.”
“But I still want it to be published.”
“I know.”
“I want to hold my book in my hands.”
“Then give yourself a chance to make it happen.”
Clara rested her head against his shoulder.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For never telling me my dreams are unrealistic.”
“Some of them might be.”
She lifted her head.
“Thanks a lot.”
He burst out laughing.
“But I don't think yours is.”
They spent the evening talking about their plans. Thomas had started questioning his own career path too. He liked his new position, but he was already thinking about asking for more responsibility. Clara encouraged him.
“You should do it.”
“Aren't you afraid I'll be away even more?”
She thought about it.
“Yes.”
“So?”
“But I don't want you to give up what you want because of me.”
Thomas took her hand.
“You know that goes both ways, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don't want you to give up your writing because of me.”
She smiled.
“Then that makes two of us.”
The weeks that followed were calmer. Clara came back to her manuscript with fresh eyes.
She wasn't trying to fix everything at once anymore.
She worked through each chapter gradually, more willing to accept imperfections.
Her story was deepening. Her main character was becoming less fragile, but not invulnerable.
Clara wanted to show that you could change without becoming a completely different person.
One morning, as she was having her coffee, her phone rang. An unknown number. She hesitated before answering.
“Hello, Clara?”
“Yes.”
“I’m calling about your manuscript.”
Her heart immediately started racing.
“Yes?”
“We’ve read your work and we’d like to meet with you.”
Clara was silent.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
She was afraid of rushing her words.
“Of course. When would you like to meet?”
When she hung up, she stood frozen for several seconds. Then she shouted,
“Thomas!”
He rushed in from the bedroom.
“What’s wrong?”
“They want to meet with me.”
“Who?”
“The publisher.”
Thomas smiled.
“I knew it would happen.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You’re insufferable.”
She threw herself into his arms.
“I’m so happy.”
“I’m proud of you.”
This time, Clara didn’t try to brush off the compliment.
“I’m proud of myself too.”
Thomas looked at her.
“There you go.”
The meeting was scheduled for a few days later. Clara spent several evenings preparing what she would say. She reread her manuscript, jotted down ideas, and prepared answers to questions she might be asked. But the closer the date got, the more her doubts grew.
The night before the meeting, she said to Thomas,
“I could cancel.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“Why?”
“Because I’m scared.”
“You’re scared they’ll like your book?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a new one.”
“I don’t know which is worse—them not liking my book or them liking it.”
Thomas smiled.
“Why?”
“Because if they like it, everything becomes real.”
“And that scares you.”
“Yes.”
He sat down facing her.
“You don’t need to know what’s going to happen next.”
“But I want to know.”
“You can’t.”
“I know.”
“So tomorrow, you’re just going to walk into that room, talk about your story, and listen to what they have to say.”
Clara nodded.
“And after?”
“After that, you’ll decide.”
The next day, she went to the meeting alone. Thomas had offered to come with her, but she’d refused.
“I need to be able to do this on my own.”
He had smiled.
“I knew you’d say that.”
The meeting lasted over an hour. They discussed her character, her writing, the structure of the novel, and changes that would need to be made. They also explained that nothing was guaranteed. But when she walked out of the building, Clara was smiling.
Thomas was waiting nearby.
“So?”
She looked at him.
“They like my story.”
He smiled.
“And?”
“They want to work with me.”
Thomas pulled her into his arms.
“Congratulations.”
Clara laughed, her eyes filling with tears.
“I can’t believe it.”
“But it is real.”
She looked at him.
“They want me to rewrite some passages.”
“Are you going to?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“But there’s something else.”
“What?”
“They want me to talk about my background.”
Thomas understood immediately.
“Do you want to?”
Clara was quiet.
“I don’t know.”
“Then don’t decide today.”
She nodded. This question quickly became the central issue.
The publisher thought her personal story could add depth to the project, but Clara didn’t want her past to become a marketing tool.
She had spent so much time rebuilding herself that she now refused to let someone else decide how her story should be told.
One evening, she finally said to Thomas:
“I don’t want to share everything.”
“Then don’t.”
“Do you think that’ll work?”
“It’s your story. You get to choose what you share.”
Clara smiled.
“You know what?”
“What?”
“I think this is the first time I really understand what it means to be in control of my own life.”
Thomas took her hand.
“And what are you going to do with it?”
“Something that’s mine.”
She went back to her desk that night and opened her manuscript.
She started writing a new chapter. Not about her past. About her present.
About a woman who had spent years believing others held the answers, only to finally discover she could choose the questions.
The words came easily. For the first time in a long while, Clara wasn’t writing to be understood by someone else.
She was writing because she had something to say.
When Thomas came in, she was still working.
“You’re not sleeping?”
“Soon.”
“Making progress?”
“A lot.”
“Want to read me something?”
Clara smiled.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because this time, I want to keep this part to myself a little longer.”
Thomas nodded.
“All right.”
He kissed her forehead gently.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
When he left the room, Clara looked at her screen. She realized this new stage was different from all the ones before. Her book might actually become real. Her name might appear on a cover. Strangers might read her words and try to understand the woman behind the pages. It frightened her.
But it was no longer the kind of fear that paralyzed her. It was the kind that reminded her she was moving forward. Clara kept writing. And this time, she wasn’t trying to become someone else. She was finally telling the story of who she had become.