My First Half

Like a child who had done something wrong, he turned over the pages of the manuscript and scratched the edges of the paper with his fingers. The light from the desk lamp was a bit dazzling, but I didn't dare to turn it off. I was afraid that once it got dark, the things that hadn't been improved would slip away quietly. After deleting and writing, writing and deleting again, the spaces between words were filled with dense modification symbols. The sound of the pen tip scratching the paper was like a gentle sigh. I can smell the faint bitter smell in the ink, mixed with the dry smell of the paper, which seems to remind me that it is not enough and needs to be changed again. I sent the manuscript to the editor again and again, and received the rejection message again and again. Those red letters were like tiny needles pricking my eyes. Grievance, unwillingness, and doubt were all mixed together, making my chest feel tight. Until that night, the phone screen suddenly lit up - just two words: "Passed." I was stunned for a few seconds before I realized that the pen in my hand was already sweating. My shoulders slowly slumped, but my eyes felt hot, as if someone had finally taken away the breath I had been holding for a long time and gently patted it away.