Writers' pov:I'll become the novelist who goes down in history.

Chapter 1: The Contract and the Missing Bear "Manon, Manon, wake up!" Her mom's voice, usually a comforting melody, now felt like an intrusion, pulling her from a world woven with words. Manon blinked, the glow of her laptop screen reflecting in her drowsy eyes. Had she really been lost that long in the pages of Letters to Romeo by Ash-Knight 17? "Mom," she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep and a touch of awe, "this isn't just any novel. The way Ash-Knight 17 makes Romeo feel... it's like breathing life into ink. You feel every stolen glance, every whispered word." Her mom smiled, a familiar blend of affection and weariness in her expression. "Okay, okay, dear. So, how's your own world of words coming along?" Manon glanced at her laptop, the dark screen hinting at the stories she was trying to build. "It's... progressing," she said, the two download notifications from the writing app feeling more like a fragile hope than a solid achievement. "That's wonderful, sweetheart." Her mother leaned in, placing a soft kiss on Manon's forehead. "Remember, even the authors whose books fill your shelves started with a single sentence. Don't stay up too late, and switch off the light." With a final gentle pat on her arm, she left the room, leaving Manon alone with her aspirations and the silent hum of her computer. Manon stared at the screen. Just this morning, a notification had made her heart soar – an invitation to apply for a writing contract. The memory brought a nervous flutter to her stomach. Why did it feel so different now? A knot of unease tightened in her chest. She looked away from the cold glow of the screen, a sudden sense of something missing nagging at her. Her blue eyes scanned her sanctuary – the lavender walls adorned with inspiring quotes from her favorite authors, the teetering stacks of well-loved paperbacks that felt like old friends. Her gaze drifted to her good brown cotton blanket, a habit pulling her to check if he was there, even as her eyes instinctively sought the familiar fluffy form against the backdrop of the night sky framed by her window. The inky expanse was scattered with a million distant diamonds, and a slender crescent moon hung like a knowing smile. Her attention snagged on her bed. A frown creased her brow. Trans, her mischievous younger sibling, had clearly been at it again, swapping her preferred purple sheets for the offensively pink ones. "Teddy?" she whispered, pushing herself up from her chair. "Teddy, where are you?" Knowing perfectly well her silent confidant wouldn't answer, she impatiently brushed a strand of dark hair from her forehead, her brows drawing together in frustration. "I can't check the message without Teddy," she murmured, a growing agitation bubbling beneath the surface. It was a silly ritual, she knew, but somehow, facing important news without his comforting presence felt impossible. She began a systematic search. She rummaged through her small wardrobe, pushing aside clothes, but he wasn't there. Where could he possibly be? Then, as her eyes swept across the room one last time, she spotted a flash of white fluff nestled beside her desk chair. A wave of relief washed over her, quickly followed by a blush of embarrassment. She'd completely forgotten putting him there earlier. Scooping up the soft bear in her left arm, she placed her right hand on the mouse. A few clicks, and the long-awaited message filled the screen. Disappointment crashed over her like a cold wave. Rejected. A normal person might sigh, maybe feel a pang of sadness, and then move on. But Manon wasn't normal, not by a long shot. And she certainly wasn't going to take this lying down. The chair scraped back with a sudden, violent sound as she shot to her feet. The laptop, forgotten on the edge of the desk, tumbled to the floor with a sickening thud, the screen cracking like a shattered dream. Next, she snatched the teddy bear, her fingers clenching in its soft fur. A guttural sound escaped her lips as she yanked, the fabric tearing with a ripping sound until the bear's head flopped lifelessly to the side, stuffing spilling out like fluffy white tears. Finally, propelled by a raw, untamed fury, Manon stumbled to her window. Her chest heaved, and a heartbroken scream tore from her throat, slicing through the quiet night. "How am I supposed to become the novelist they write about in history books when thirty-five of my stories are deemed worthless?!" The desperate words echoed into the darkness, a raw plea hurled at the indifferent stars.