"I can see why readers are impressed with this story. Catchy premise, cool character names, at may angsty love confession sa first chapter pa lang."

"Talaga? Hala, thank---"

"Too bad you have no one to impress here."

I ripped the manuscript in half, the sound mirroring the writer's torn heart right now.

In fact, hindi na ako magtataka kung lumuhod siya sa harapan ko't magmakaawang puso na lang niya sirain ko, 'wag lang ang pinakamamahal niyang nobela na nakapagbigay ng kasikatan sa kanya. In the silence of the room, I watched as all his confidence crumbled with the pages of his hopes and dreams.

I tossed the pieces carelessly on the floor in front of my desk, along with the thousands of other pages the writers before him attempted to feed me with.

"And you call THAT a story? What a joke. Baka mas naaliw pa akong basahin ang obituary sa dyaryo."

Napayuko ang manunulat. Hindi makakibo. Hindi alam kung ano ang isasagot o kung may mukha pa ba siyang maihaharap pagkatapos ng appointment na ito. I leaned against my chair, eyeing the torn pages that covered my entire office---from the walls to the ceilings, down to the soles of my designer shoes. Kulang na lang siguro ay maging gawa na rin sa mga rejected manuscripts ang lamesa at upuan ko.

Some of them I can remember, most of them I can't.

And it's either the writers or their stories never really left an impression on me.

"Limang dekada na akong nagbabasa ng mga libro. At sa limang dekadang 'yon, ni isa, walang akdang nakapukaw sa atensyon ko," paglilinaw ko sa manunulat. I'm already in my late sixties, and going over this script again and again is tiring me out. But they need to understand, and making them understand is the least I can do after destroying their hardwork right in front of their eyes. Huminga ako nang malalim at nagpatuloy, "Ikaw ang 1,578th na manunulat na lumapit sa'kin. But you already know that by now, don't you? My legacy is all over the news."

The young writer nodded.

Hindi na nakapagtataka.

The media has its own way to immortalize humans, the same way stories do to the writers. I've been called many names in the past---"The Book Critic", "The Man Who Read A Million Novels", "The One No Writer Can Please", "The Final Boss", and all those other fancy terms kids use these days. Sumasakit ang ulo ko tuwing nadaragdagan ang listahan ng mga bansag nila sa'kin.

I just call myself The Old Reader. It has a ring to it, don't you think?

And for the 1,578th time, I asked the writer before me...

"Why?" I sighed. "Why go through all this just to get my approval?"

My question caught him off guard. Kinakabahang nag-angat ng tingin ang binata, at nauutal na nagtanong pabalik. "A-Anong ibig mong sabihin?"

Ah, there it is again.

In frustration, I stood up, wincing as my arthritis took a jab at my knees. Tumayo ako sa gitna ng silid at iminuwestra ang kabuuan ng opisina. To the writer's perspective, the spacious office looked more like a hospital with white walls---if only the white didn't come with printed words of stories the world won't know.

"Every story genre you can think off... characters with names I can't remember anymore... endings that felt like first chapters and first chapters that felt like endings... millions and millions of words! Ideas! Paragraphs! All wasted, because I rejected them. Ngayon, uulitin ko... bakit ka nandito?"

Kumunot ang noo ng manunulat.

"Because you're someone we need to impress! Noong pumasok ako sa industriya, tinuro nila sa'king kailangan kong magsulat nang magsulat para magustahan mo ang mga isinusulat ko!"

"Ginawa niyo nang paligsahan ang lahat ng ito," mahina kong sabi habang napapailing sa ideya. Unfortunately, writers are always drawn to this sense of unnecessary competitiveness. Who can write more words? Who can write more stories? Who can write spicier scenes? Who can make readers shed more tears? Who can write better?

"Who can finally gain the approval of The Older Reader who never approved any story?"

Nag-iwas ng tingin ang manunulat, dumako sa dinala niyang manuscript na ngayon ay pira-piraso na ring nakakalat sa sahig. Magiging bahagi na rin ng koleksyon ng mga akdang hindi na binalikan ng mga nagsulat sa kanila.

But somehow, something in his eyes held a conviction I failed to see in other writers.

"Hindi ako titigil sa pagsusulat nang dahil lang hindi mo nagustuhan ang sinulat ko," sagot ng manunulat. "Hindi ko alam kung sinong nagbigay ng titulo mo, pero wala kang karapatang i-invalidate ang mga pinaghirapan ko! Do you know how many sleepless nights I've spent just for planning it down to the very last detail!? For just thinking about character names, scenes, and don't even get me started with how I struggled with writer's block! You've only read the first page and you act like you know everything already! Okay, so maybe my story isn't your cup of tea, I get it, but ripping it in half? No. I'm a writer, not a people-pleaser. You may not like what I write, but I am fucking proud of my stories, and that's what matters."

Sandali akong natahimik.

My arms fell to my sides as I watched the writer pick up the pieces of the manuscript I tore a while ago. Pero imbes na magalit, mahina pa siyang nagpasalamat at akmang maglalakad na sana papalabas ng opisina nang pigilan ko siya.

"Bata," pagtawag ko.

The writer flinched at the word I used but still turned to me. Nakasimangot na ito, yakap-yakap ang punit-punit niyang manuscript na para bang handa na niya itong ipaglaban kung sakali mang tangkain ko itong punitin ulit. Mahina akong natawa.

This is new.

This is different.

"You have more untold stories ahead of you. Keep bleeding."

Nagtatakang tumango ang manunulat sa sinabi ko. Ilang sandali pa, tinalikuran ko na siya't naglakad na ako pabalik sa desk. All the manuscripts of the stories I've rejected, of writers' dreams I've ended, glared at me from every corner of my office. Finally, I sat down and gave him a knowing smile.

"Too bad you have no one to impress here."

The writer took one, two, three steps back until he was walking out of my office. As the door closed, the entire room became an empty space again.

No desk.

No torn manuscripts.

The Old Reader doesn't exist.

There is literally no one here they needed approval from.

Not when this office is only located inside every writer's mind.

THE END.