I stared at the orange logo of the writing app where I started everything. For a decade, I've witnessed the evolution of this very logo as my number grew. How exactly did I come across this again?

I massaged my temple. The only light in my room is coming from my laptop. I don't know. My room being dim brought something to my numb heart. I stared at my blinking cursor. Ah, yes. After everything with Vincent, I came across this orange app. It was two years after the incident, the same hot afternoon, I turned my head to my bed and I remember when it started...

Abi was lying on my bed again. Feet swinging in the air, the third notebook for A Thing of The Past in her hand.

"Just post it already," she said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

I didn't even look at her properly. "It's just something I wrote to pass time."

She reached for my laptop before I could even stop her.

"Hey—"

"Relax," she said, already typing. "No one's going to die if you upload a story, Jade."

I frowned. "Writing doesn't feed you."

Abi laughed. "But it feeds the soul, ain't it?"

I rolled my eyes heavenward. "What I need is to pass the civil service exam and as for you, you need to practice. Summer breaks don't mean breaks in training either."

"There's no harm in trying," Abi replied, swirling my chair in circle. "Enjoy life, Jade. You're way too rigid."

"You're just too unserious, Abi."

She shrugged. "Next training is going to be out of town and it will take a month. I can't wait that long for your update, please!"

I let out a sigh. She's definitely not going to stop. I raised my two hands, "Fine, fine. I'll make one."

Days had passed and Abi not being around made me feel extra lonely. I miss her. But I kept my promise with her, I uploaded every chapter and updated everyday. Her comments were always the first to conquer it. She is my only reader, but having someone to read my craft sent a ticklish sensation in my chest.

And as promised, I uploaded the newest chapter.

A new notification pinged. To my surprise, it wasn't Abegail's comment. A user named JustACuteMaiim

'I don't usually comment on stories here, but I just can't help it waaaah! This is not just a compliment, but A Thing of the Past is so beautifully written.'

I felt my heart skip a beat. What's this unfamiliar butterfly in my stomach? I closed the tab. I don't know how to react to that. I stood up and couldn't help but dance in excitement. I giddily opened a document and started typing for my new chapter.

As soon as I finished typing, I instantly published the new chapter. Few weeks had passed since then and I don't how and why, but I've been receiving more comments from different readers.

I glanced at my bedside clock. Four o'clock. Old habits really are hard to break.

With an exasperated sigh, I stretched and pushed myself out of bed. Might as well make it. If Mom saw the sheets like this, she'd start another lecture about how I "basically live in my room". After straightening the blankets, I headed for the kitchen, rubbing sleep from my eyes. The house was still quiet, hmm, Mom usually gets up around the sun rising. I still have time.

I opened the refrigerator, the cold air brushing against my face. 

"In celebration of one thousand followers," I muttered to myself, "I will be cooking breakfast."

Despite the fact that I had never cooked before.

I grabbed two eggs. Omelettes. I did my research last night, the tutorial wasn't that hard, I can do this. Before closing the fridge, I paused, slowly easing the door shut while peeking through the gap, watching how long the light stayed on. It flickered just before the door sealed completely.

Huh. Mystery not solved. But that is going to be solved in a different day. First, I have to cook. Shaking my hips and humming, I turned to the stove. Let's keep moving or else Mom is going to see my surprise. I grabbed a transparent bowl.

"Okay... crack the eggs," I mumbled.

The first egg slipped from my fingers and splat—half of it landed on the counter, the other half clinging to the shell still in my hand. Ugh, sticky...that still counts. The second egg made it into the bowl. Perfect! I'm such a genuis. I washed my hands before adding milk, salt, and pepper.

I turned the knob on the stove. Nothing happened. I frowned, twisting it harder until a flame burst, making me jump back. That was dangerous. Grabbing the pan, I laid it on the stove and added an oil. 

I poured the questionable egg mixture into the pan. It sizzled immediately—too loudly. Way too loudly and started to splatter. It touched my skin, ouch, that stinged! I poked at it with a spatula, unsure if I was supposed to stir or just I don't know, maybe wait?

Within seconds, the edges started browning. Then darkening. How do I know if it's cooked? A thin trail of smoke curled upward, followed by the unmistakable smell of something burning.

"Oh no. No no no—"

I frantically flipped the omelette, only for it to fold into itself like a sad, overcooked pancake. One side was pale and runny. The other looked like charcoal. It doesn't look like the tutorial I watched! The smoke thickened. Wait, wait, wait! Why is it turning black?!

I froze when a familiar voice resounded in the kitched. "What is that smell?!"

I turned and saw Mom standing at the kitchen entrance, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed.

"I—uh—breakfast?" I smiled awkwardly.

She walked over, took one look at the pan, and sighed.

"You're burning eggs at four in the morning?"

"I hit one thousand followers," I said, as if that explained everything.

She stared at me for a moment... then shook her head, reaching for another pan.

"Move," she said. "Before you burn the house down."

I stepped aside without protest. She went to grab a new pair of eggs and expertly cracked it into a bowl, I leaned against the counter, watching.

"Can I still say I cooked?" I asked.

"Sure," she replied. "You cooked smoke."

I pouted, crossing my arms slightly.  "The video made it look easy though." 

Mom glanced at me, her expression softening as she reached over and ruffled my hair. "Congratulations on hitting a thousand followers. Now, how about helping me grab the plates so we can celebrate?"

I couldn't help but clap my hands and I couldn't help grinning. Yey! Let's celebrate! I went to grab the plates and served it to the table. I talked to Mom about my plans for the next chapters and it seems like she is excited for my next chapter too! After washing the dishes, I went back to my room.

Opening my writing profile has been my most anticipated moment in my day. Scenes, words, ideas just flood inside my head with every votes I received.

I didn't know writing can be this addicting. And reading someone else enjoy my writing is more satisfying than reaching the finish line.

Spending most of my time in my room, writing. I can't believe I just wrote five chapters in four hours. I immediately clicked on published and stretched my arms.

Multiple notifications came in with new votes and comments, it hasn't even been a minute! A new notification came in. Different name this time. The first person to post in my empty message board.

'I have only posted on 2 famous author's message boards among the hundred writers I came across and you're the 3rd! I am very picky but I can't get enough of ATOTP. I binged read 100 chapters in one night! I know you just updated, but please update more!'

My heart pounded like crazy. I couldn't help but feel the corner of my lips rise. Reading their messages and comments felt as satisfying as being the first in competition and all I did was write.

I opened a new document and started typing. New ideas flooded my mind. I moved my cursor to the other window, I refreshed my tab and new comments flooded in while I was busy writing.

I clenched my fist grinning. I went back to my document and started typing again. Then my phone sitting on my table lit up.

Abi texted me. "What happened to Isabelle?! Your story is just so addictive. Update when?"

I should really thank Abi for this. Yes, I should dedicate my next chapter to her. I stared at my computer, I have spent hte last few months thinking how I can't see my future anymore. But right at this moment, I think I can see it.

Maybe I can build a career in writing.