“If you ever feel restless, take a piece of paper and start writing,” my father once told me, on a night I’ll never forget.

“Let your feelings flow onto an empty sheet, in front of a flickering candle, deep in the stillness and darkness of midnight.”

“Write whatever you want. Tomorrow never repeats itself—let today be part of your history.”

“And if your day is bad, look up. Maybe tomorrow will be worse... or maybe it will be better than yesterday.”

Back then, I didn’t understand what he meant.

But as I grew older, especially in my teenage years, I began to see the truth in his words.

“If you’re restless… write.”

Those words have never left me. And with time, they revealed their meaning, piece by piece.

I started writing about my days—my thoughts, my emotions.

At my study desk, under the glow of a nearly melted candle, I write.

Sometimes I pause and gaze at the midnight sky—so silent, so full of stars—as if they’re quietly watching me.

My name is Andrean. I’m 17 years old and in high school.

This is the age where emotions run wild, the time that feels like it will define the rest of our lives.

I have feelings for a girl with long, beautiful hair. She’s so stunning that I forget who I am when I see her.

Her humor is graceful, her small smile enchanting. She looks like a character straight out of a novel—someone even a brave knight would surrender to.

I don’t know what kind of magic she cast on me, but I’ve been longing to talk to her.

More than that, I dream of becoming a writer—someone whose stories are known and celebrated, whose words carry meaning that could touch hearts and pierce through the soul.

Monday, November 17th, 2026.

Putting feelings onto paper isn’t as bad as people think.

It’s better than bottling them up forever, hoping they’ll disappear.

Just like me, who never had the courage to talk to her—until this paper became old and worn.

I always imagined bumping into her by accident, helping her up like in a soap opera, starting a conversation, then… falling in love, and eventually getting married.

I smile as I think about it, staring at the moon as if it were her face.

Maybe my imagination goes too far.

But still, I hope—hope that luck will find its way to me.

It’s already very late. If I keep writing, my thoughts will spiral into delusion and drive me crazy.

I should go to sleep now… and hope something good happens tomorrow.

Dear God, please grant me the luck to meet her someday, I whisper, smiling on my bed.

The sky and the moon shall be my witnesses tonight.

A pen and a crumpled sheet of paper lay quietly on Andrean’s desk, while moonlight softly illuminated the page.

Good night