The dining table was already set when Nadine entered the kitchen, the familiar clatter of cutlery and the low murmur of the television filling the space with a sense of routine she had never quite managed to embrace. The room smelled of warm food and cleaning detergent, a comforting combination that usually reminded her of childhood evenings. Tonight, however, it felt oppressive.
Franck was seated at the head of the table, scrolling through something on his tablet, his glasses perched low on his nose. Nadia was moving quietly between the stove and the counter, her gestures efficient, practiced, almost mechanical. Everything was normal. And that, somehow, made it worse.
Nadine sat down slowly, placing her hands on her lap. Her mind was still heavy from the contest results, the words "lacks originality" echoing faintly in her thoughts like a dull bruise.
"So," Franck said casually, without looking up, "how are your classes going?"
Nadine hesitated for half a second. "They're… fine," she replied.
Nadia turned toward her with a gentle smile. "Midterms are coming up soon, right? You'll need to focus more. This semester is important."
Nadine nodded. She had expected this. She always did.
Franck finally looked up, his gaze settling on her with a mixture of concern and expectation. "Your mother and I were talking earlier. We think it might be time for you to start thinking more seriously about your future."
Her fingers curled slightly against her thigh.
"I am thinking about it," Nadine said carefully.
"Yes," Franck replied, "but thinking isn't enough. Planning is what matters."
There it was. The familiar tone. Calm, reasonable, impossible to argue with without sounding childish.
Nadia placed a plate in front of Nadine and sat down across from her. "We don't want to pressure you," she said softly, "but we can't help noticing how much time you spend… online."
Nadine lowered her gaze to the food.
"You mean writing," she said quietly.
Franck sighed. "Nadine, we've been over this. Writing stories on the internet isn't a plan. It's a hobby."
The word landed heavily.
Hobby.
She felt something tighten in her chest, but she forced herself to remain composed. "Don't react," she told herself. "If you react, they'll think you're being dramatic."
"I entered a contest," she said after a moment. The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Franck raised an eyebrow. "A contest?"
"Yes. On the platform I use."
"And?" Nadia asked gently.
Nadine swallowed. "I didn't rank."
The silence that followed was not cruel. It was worse. It was neutral.
Franck nodded slowly, as if the outcome confirmed something he had already known. "Well… that's unfortunate, but not surprising."
Nadine flinched.
"You see," he continued, leaning back in his chair, "this is exactly what we're talking about. These platforms encourage false hope. They make young people believe they're special, when in reality—"
"I worked hard," Nadine interrupted, her voice sharper than she intended.
Franck paused, studying her. "I'm sure you did. But effort doesn't guarantee results. That's life."
Nadia reached out slightly, her voice softer. "Honey, we're not saying you should never write again. But maybe it's time to put it in its proper place. Focus on your studies first. Once you're stable, you can write all you want."
"Once you're stable."
The phrase echoed in her mind.
"When?" Nadine asked quietly. "After graduation? After a job? After I'm too tired to dream?"
Franck frowned. "That's not fair."
"Neither is pretending this doesn't matter to me," Nadine replied, her hands trembling now.
Nadia sighed, a trace of fatigue in her eyes. "We just don't want you to end up disappointed."
Nadine almost laughed.
Disappointed.
She was already there.
Dinner continued after that, but the conversation shifted to safer topics—bills, schedules, a distant cousin's success. Nadine barely tasted her food. Every word felt like confirmation that her world existed parallel to theirs, unseen and unacknowledged.
Later that night, back in her bedroom, Nadine sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her closed laptop. The room felt smaller than usual, the walls pressing in with silent judgment.
"They're not wrong," she thought. "They're just… incomplete."
Her phone buzzed.
MOONLOOM: Are you okay?
Nadine hesitated before typing.
YUMEWRITE: I don't know.
A moment passed.
MOONLOOM: That's okay too.
Nadine lay back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The pressure from her parents wasn't explosive. It didn't scream. It whispered. It framed itself as logic, as care, as responsibility.
And that was what made it dangerous.
Because part of her wanted to believe them.
She reached for her notebook, opening it slowly. The pages were filled with crossed-out lines, rewritten scenes, fragments of dreams. She traced a sentence with her finger, one she had written weeks ago, full of naive confidence.
Her chest tightened.
"What if this really is just a phase?"
"What if they're right… and I'm wasting time I can't get back?"
The thought scared her more than failure ever had.
She closed the notebook gently and placed it beside her pillow instead of on the desk. A small gesture, but a telling one. For the first time, writing did not feel like a weapon or a shield.
It felt fragile.
Nadine turned off the light, letting the darkness settle. Her parents' words lingered, not as accusations, but as reasonable expectations she was slowly suffocating under.
Tomorrow, she would wake up and attend classes. Tomorrow, she would smile and nod and act responsible.
But tonight, alone in the quiet, Nadine Oswalt lay awake, wondering how long she could carry a dream that no one else believed was real.