Before dawn

chapter 1: The writer

As I set alone with my pen and paper I discovered my true companion - the blank page.

I always wrote to escape, but my stories became my reality. In the shadows of my solitude characters came to life , I started writing and the words never stopped.

Being alone has become a habit, maybe I've been blinded by the bruises I have left behind. Everday it's getting worse. A lone girl who longs to be seen , a lone girl who longs to be loved. Having to pretend, I've lived in a small village for 17 years of my life technically this is the life I only know.

Living alone has hasn't gotten me anywhere really. I am 17 and entirely remarkable.

My parents, Rachel and James Catherine, are the embodiment of success-driven professionals. Mom is a renowned fashion designer, and her label, Rachel Catherine Designs, dominates the industry. She spends most of her time globe-trotting, attending fashion weeks, and meeting with high-end clients. Her phone is constantly buzzing with calls from stylists, models, and influencers.

Dad is a tech mogul, and his company, Catherine Industries, revolutionizes innovation. He's always in boardrooms, sealing deals, and expanding his empire. His schedule is a maze of conferences, meetings, and networking events.

Their work ethic is admirable, but it comes at a cost. They're never home, and when they are, they're distant, preoccupied with the next big project. I'm left to fend for myself, living alone in our sprawling mansion.

No housekeeper, no nanny, just me. I'm responsible for my own meals, laundry, and schedule. It's liberating yet isolating. I often wonder if they remember I exist.

Their absence is a constant reminder: work always comes first. I'm an afterthought, a checkbox on their to-do list. They don't call to check in, don't ask about my day, don't attend school events.

My parents' priorities are clear: career advancement, profit margins, and industry recognition. I'm just a faint blur in the background.

And you wanna know how it feels like; it feels like loneliness wraps around my heart, suffocating. Tears fall unseen, whispers unheard. I'm invisible, forgotten. The silence screams: 'You're not worth their time.' My soul craves love, connection, but it's lost in the void of my parents' indifference. Silence ringing inside my head and it's killing I just wish someone could keep me out of this hell of a hole.

It was almost sunset and I had school tomorrow. I slept for about a whole relaxing 8 hours to properly prepare myself for school tomorrow.

The sunlight crept through the blinds, casting a lonely glow on the empty halls of my family home. I stood alone in the kitchen, pouring cereal into a bowl, the only sound the crunch of cornflakes. My parents, globe-trotting executives, had left me to navigate senior year solo. Their absence stung, but I'd grown numb to the constant farewells. The fridge was stocked, the bills were paid, and I was left to my own devices.

As I walked to school, the autumn air carried the whispers of leaves and the distant humming of cars. Lily High loomed ahead, a sanctuary from the isolation. I slipped into my favorite seat in Mrs. Stephanie English class, losing myself in the world of words. She smiled, acknowledging my presence, and I felt seen. My stories became my confidants, my characters the family I wished I had.

Between classes, I scribbled in my journal, observations of classmates and teachers transforming into characters. The school's rhythm was my solace - locker slamming, friends laughing, teachers guiding. But when the final bell rang, I returned to the silence.

At home, I settled into my writing book, surrounded by dog-eared novels and scraps of paper filled with ideas. My laptop hummed to life, and words began to flow. I crafted worlds where families stayed, love was unconditional, and loneliness was a distant memory. My heart poured onto the page, and for a fleeting moment, I wasn't alone.

With each sentence, I reclaimed my voice, my purpose. Writing became my rebellion against the emptiness, my declaration that I existed, that I mattered. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting my room in a warm orange glow, I knew I'd continue to write, to create, to breathe life into the silence.

The following day after my classes I decided to go to the library and find a quick corner to write

As I walked into the school library, searching for a quiet corner to write, I spotted her - a girl with vibrant purple hair and a warm smile. She sat alone, surrounded by stacks of books, her eyes scanning the pages with an intensity I recognized. A kindred spirit.

I approached cautiously, not wanting to disrupt her flow. 'Mind if I join you?' I asked, gesturing to the empty chair.

She looked up, startled, then smiled. "Not at all. I'm katty burner."

We introduced ourselves, exchanging stories about our shared love of literature. Katty was a fellow writer, working on a fantasy novel. Her passion ignited mine, and soon we were lost in conversation.

Over lunch, katty shared her struggles - balancing creativity with criticism, self-doubt, and the pressure to conform. I listened, nodding, recognizing the echoes of my own fears.

'You're not alone,' I said, the words spilling out.

katty's eyes locked onto mine, a deep connection forming. 'Thanks for getting it,' she said.

In that moment, I found a friend, a confidante, and a partner in creativity. Our bond grew, forged in the fire of shared passion and understanding.

Together, we formed a writing group, meeting weekly to share our work and offer constructive feedback. Katty insights helped me refine my craft, and I returned the favor.

With katty by my side, the empty house didn't feel so lonely. We wrote together, our words intertwining like the branches of two trees growing stronger together.

"I hope I wrote the first part good , what do u think about Jessie and katty's friendship so far. Leave a comment!."