At thirty, I live in a rented room, writing ten thousand words a day and surviving on instant noodles. My blind date heard I wrote web novels and made an excuse to leave. Every New Year, my relatives take turns urging me to get a proper job. Last night, I stayed up until dawn on two packs of cigarettes, revising my backlog. I rewrote the author's note for the launch five times before daring to post it. There are still four hours until noon, and the number of saves in my author dashboard has just passed five thousand. I refresh the page, and a new comment appears: "I've subscribed. Keep writing." I stare at those words for a few seconds, close the dashboard, and reopen my document. The cursor is still blinking. I haven't started today's chapter yet, and the sky outside is already bright.
