The Happiest Unnoticed Writer

It was May 31st, 2024, when she opened her email inbox, searching for a glimmer of hope in his reply. The happiest moment of her day might unfold when she signed in, filled with a magical anticipation of a forever-broken promise. She adjusted her glasses as if the problem was with her eyesight. As usual, she blamed herself for never receiving his email back. She checked her email three times—three failed attempts, one bitter truth, and zero messages. Her emotional clock started ticking—it was depression time o’clock.

However, something stopped her. It was an email from a writing website about a competition. Hell no! Did she really think she could write something other than a grocery list? A sarcastic grin darkened her features. The black sheep wants to write now? And expects to win? She was about to shut down her computer when she stumbled upon a childhood picture hung on the wall of shame. That day, she was standing in the middle, unsmiling, unhappy, and unloved, like usual. It was the last family portrait before her father kicked her out for coming clean about her feelings. She had stolen that picture to remind herself why she fled her past, taking refuge in the present, for the future is never guaranteed. Some pictures are scars drawn deep in our souls rather than on the shallow surface of our skin.

Damn it! Her dad always had this disdainful look, as if he hated everything beautiful. What would he say if he knew that for a glimpse of a dream she thought of writing? She would never know because he never gave her the attention she needed. Her dad never hit her. Her dad never kissed her. Her dad never scolded her. Her dad never praised her. Mr. Parker was never absent, but he was never available. That was the worst feeling she had ever endured as a kid—feeling unnoticed and unseen. Unlike her imaginary friends, she never complained about her father’s brutality. Instead, she complained about his frozenness. She could never see her reflection in his eyes; rather, she witnessed it in his cold absence.

She pierced the family portrait with a defiant glance. “Guess what, Daddy! Your daughter will write that short story and submit it,” she thought, even if she was going to lose. Eventually, she was going to lose. Since birth, she has been cursed, like many people. They could make a global community and call it “the unnoticed hood”; she bet they would outnumber the alpha, beta, and omega wolves. Still, no one would notice them, for they are “the unnoticed”.

Suddenly, she was hit by an unusual wave of hope, and she blamed it on her hormones. Those guys were throwing a party and inviting her to pour a glass of wine and dance with her sorrows. Why not? She poured herself a glass of “fine” and grabbed her partner in “crime,” “Mr. Pen,” to write a shadow of a story. She opened her email again and adjusted her glasses to read the required prompt: “Write a story that contains the line, 'I wish we could stay here forever.'” She laughed out loud, saying, “That would be my mother’s womb... or staying free gamete, with no commitments to life.”

Suddenly, she stopped laughing at herself, while the echoes of her laughter betrayed her through the empty space of the cellar. What if she believed in herself once? What’s the worst that could happen? No one would know that she participated in this competition. She wouldn’t sign up with her name; she could pretend to be one of her imaginary friends. Strangers were safe in her case; they wouldn’t judge her for trying. They would read the prompt, then dismiss it for not complying with the “winners’ community.” She would lose, so what? She has a PhD in “Creative Failure," and she can even deliver a free online course about it. Is there anything safer than losing thousands of times, and trying again? No!

Her thoughts drifted back to the email, still open on her screen. The words seemed to shimmer with an inviting challenge. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt a genuine spark of interest in anything—a small but significant opportunity to do something different, something daring.

Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard. She remembered the silent nights she had spent hiding under her bed, whispering stories to herself in the dark to calm herself down before anyone got up. Those stories had been her sanctuary, her escape from a reality that felt suffocating. Could she reclaim that sense of freedom and creativity now?

She took a deep breath and began to type. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't impossible. What should she write about? An empty half? or a filled half? She was biased toward her happy version and wrote about a place where time stood still, a place where dreams and reality intertwined seamlessly. In this place, she imagined a version of herself who was fearless, and who pursued her passions without fear of judgment or failure. The line “I wish we could stay here forever” became the heart of her story, a testament to her longing for a world where she could truly belong.

As she wrote, she felt a strange sense of liberation. Each keystroke was an act of defiance against the constraints that had always held her back. She was avenging her fears. "The Unnoticed" poured her emotions into the story, weaving a tapestry of emotions.

Hours passed unnoticed as she lost herself in the art of creation. The cellar, usually a place of shadows and silence, seemed to come alive with the energy of her words. She didn’t care about the outcome of the competition anymore. Winning or losing was irrelevant. What mattered was the process—the journey of rediscovering her voice and healing herself by herself.

When she finally finished, she sat back and read through her story. It was perfectly imperfect, but it was hers. For the first time, she tasted her happy tears. That's her trophy; she achieved it and gave it to herself.

Before hitting the send button, she glanced again at the old family portrait. Her younger self stared back at her, unsmiling and unloved. But now, there was a glint of determination in her eyes. “Guess what, Daddy?” she whispered. “Your daughter is a writer.”

She clicked ‘submit’ and closed her laptop. For the first time in a lifetime, she felt a sense of accomplishment.

And so she poured herself another glass of wine, this time to celebrate, and raised her toast: "Cheers to the unnoticed, to the dreamers, and to the hopefuls who dared to believe in themselves."

From that day forward, she wrote not for recognition or validation but for the sheer joy of it. She might never win a competition or become a famous author, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that she had found her voice. And in finding her voice, she has become "The Happiest Unnoticed Writer."