sleepless cinderella ☆ ten | ✔

01

Rain pattered against the window of the bus you were on, lulling you into a dreamy, calm trance as your eyes followed stray drops racing down the glass. Every breath you exhaled fogged up a small circle on it, one that disappeared almost as soon as it formed. The sounds of the other passengers were irrelevant to you, a steady hum in the background of one ear while the other had an earbud in, music playing quietly.

You weren't quite focusing on a single thing in that moment. It felt like a whole lot of nothing with the same notion hovering as it had been in the back of your mind for the past week. It was there even when you weren't thinking about it, even when you didn't acknowledge that it was there, you knew it was.

It was like wearing glasses. You knew that they were there, even though you didn't always register them, you weren't always aware of them being there, but you still knew they were. If you took more than a second to pause, the frames would come back in your vision and you would be suddenly hyperaware of their presence.

The pair of glasses that had been over your consciousness was your article.

Or, lack thereof.

And there you were, suddenly strikingly aware of it. With a disgruntled sigh at having been taken out of your brief state of false ignorance, you brought your phone up from your lap, turning the screen on.

Quickly, you pulled up a familiar webpage: the official site of New Perceptions, your school's own student-run journal. It had been an integral part of your first four years of college. It was overseen by Professor Zhang, but entirely operated by undergrad students. Most were journalism students, as you had been. You were even the editor-in-chief your senior year. But now as a graduate student, you could no longer have an active hand, it was supposed to be a learning experience for the undergraduates. The most you could do was guest write columns or articles, which you had done on the occasion. Many of your earlier works were housed on the website—as well as in the physical copies stored in your apartment. You found yourself searching your own name in the search bar.

Maybe reading some of your greatest hits would give you inspiration for the next one.

Skimming over the titles, you felt compelled to click on one from over four years ago. Your sophomore year, when you were still finding your journalistic voice. It was a more toned-down and uncontroversial article than most that you'd written later. A critical, hard-hitting thinkpiece entitled 'Thomas Edison Was A Crook and Kind of a Jerk.' The original title actually called him a little bitch, but Yixing, your editor-in-chief at the time, thought it could do with some tweaking.

Admittedly, not the most intense article, but you remembered thoroughly enjoying your researching into the topic and that the actual writing process had flowed so easily. It was a genuinely fun piece to write and got more attention than you thought it would.

You'd just started reading the first topic of the article—that he didn't actually invent the lightbulb—when your phone rang. The notification took up your whole screen, an incoming call from Professor Zhang.

Quickly accepting the call, you greeted her, "Hello, Professor Zhang."

"Hey, Y/N. How have you been doing?" She asked.

You were a little caught off-guard. It wasn't that your professor didn't care about her students, just that she usually didn't randomly call to check in and catch up.

"I've been alright, thanks."

Before you could politely ask her the same, she spoke again, "How far along are you in your article?"

You chewed on your lip, having a short internal debate before deciding to tell her the truth, "Not very well, Professor. I don't even have a subject."

"Perfect, I think I may have something interesting for you. A representative from Gleneagles called my office line about doing a piece on one of their surgeons. They requested you, specifically. Would you be up for it?"

"Of course!" Your interest was definitely piqued, but you did have a slight doubt, "But why would they request me?"

"That's something you'll have to ask Dr. Li Yongqin, he's the surgeon you'll be interviewing."

After getting all the details from your professor for the initial meeting with your new subject, you flopped back into your seat with a satisfied elation. Your eyes looked to the sign at the front of the bus that told you what stop you were coming up on. One several miles after your own— you'd missed yours. And looking outside, the light rain had turned into a full downpour. With no umbrella, you stepped off the bus still grinning.