Chapter 1 — A Bitter Sip of Rejection

Abby

The rejection letter stared back at me from my laptop screen, its words crisp and clinical, like ice water spilling over an open wound. “We regret to inform you…” Well, at least someone regretted it. I didn’t even regret applying anymore. Regret required energy I didn’t have.

Four rejections in the past two months. Four reminders that maybe I wasn’t enough. I’d told myself this one would be different—that Northwest Journalism would finally see what the others hadn’t. But here I was, the same bitter taste in my mouth, the same hollow pit in my chest.

My fingers tightened around my coffee cup, its warmth doing little to settle the chill spreading from somewhere deep inside. Daisy’s Coffeehouse buzzed around me, its usual symphony of productivity somehow louder than usual: the muted clinks of mugs on wooden tables, the gentle hum of hushed conversations, the rhythmic clickety-clack of fingers flying over keyboards. None of it drowned out the roaring in my ears.

I exhaled slowly and looked away from the screen, feeling the weight of the rejection settle deeper into my bones. Across the room, a group of students erupted into laughter, their voices threading through the café like a melody I couldn’t quite tune into. I flinched and stared out the window instead. The autumn air outside was dotted with golden leaves swirling down the sidewalk. Even the trees seemed to be shedding their burdens. Lucky them.

Dragging my satchel closer, I slid my laptop inside, the leather flap brushing against a pen that had somehow slipped loose. My fingers traced the bag’s worn edges, the grooves scuffed and soft from years of use. It was a comforting presence, and yet, today it felt heavier somehow. As if it knew it was carrying the weight of another failure. Or maybe it was me who felt heavier.

As my gaze drifted toward the corkboard near the counter, the bold black letters of a flyer caught my attention. FULL TUITION AND SPORTS NETWORK INTERNSHIP. Underneath, in smaller print, were the words that had been following me around campus like a taunting whisper: THE ELLIS-MORGAN SCHOLARSHIP.

I’d seen it before. Of course, I had. It was hard to miss something this significant, this… impossible. The flyer might as well have been a neon sign screaming at me every time I walked into Daisy’s, reminding me just how high the stakes were. This scholarship wasn’t just my last shot at grad school. It wasn’t just tuition. It was a way out—the kind of opportunity that could change everything.

But that didn’t stop my stomach from twisting into knots at the thought of competing for it. Every time I let myself think about it for too long, I remembered all the times I’d fallen short, all the times someone had told me “no.” And that word had started to feel like one I couldn’t outrun.

My hand hovered over the strap of my satchel as I turned the idea over in my head. A familiar voice whispered in the back of my mind—Mark’s voice, from years ago. “You’re too ambitious, Abby. You’re always chasing something you can’t catch.” I felt the familiar pang of doubt bloom in my chest and shook it off sharply, like brushing away a spiderweb.

“Pull it together, Abby,” I muttered under my breath. The barista glanced over, raising an eyebrow, and I forced a weak smile before grabbing my things. I couldn’t sit here any longer. Too many people. Too much energy. Too much success in the air. Slipping the strap of my satchel over my shoulder, I gave the flyer one last glance before pushing through the door into the crisp autumn breeze.

Walking back to the apartment, I kept my head down, hands shoved into my pockets to shield them from the cold. The wind bit at my cheeks, and my sneakers crunched over the leaves littering the sidewalk. Everything about the campus hummed with life—students in bright scarves rushing to class, their laughter bouncing off the ivy-covered walls of the Quadrangle. A basketball team poster taped to a lamppost snagged my attention for a moment. It showed Christian Beck mid-shot, a look of pure determination on his face. Everyone here seemed to have their place, their purpose. Except me.

By the time I reached the apartment, my fingers were stiff from the cold, and the heavy weight of my satchel had left an ache on my shoulder. I fumbled with the key, my frustration mounting, until the lock finally gave. The door creaked open to reveal the warm, familiar clutter of our living room. Nia was perched on the couch, a medical textbook spread across her lap, her hair pulled back into a neat puff. The faint scent of lavender from her diffuser mixed with the buttery aroma of popcorn wafting from the kitchen.

Her eyes flicked up, sharp and observant as always. “Bad day?”

I shrugged, kicking off my sneakers and dropping my satchel by the door. “You could say that.”

Jenny appeared in the doorway, a bowl of popcorn in hand and her oversized T-shirt featuring a retro band I didn’t recognize. “Oh no. Who do we need to fight?”

I managed a small laugh, more out of gratitude than humor. “Just the admissions committee at Northwest Journalism. They sent me a rejection email this morning.”

Jenny groaned dramatically, flopping onto the couch beside Nia. “They’re idiots, obviously. I mean, have they even read your work? You’re Abby freaking Ryan.”

“It’s fine,” I said, collapsing into the armchair across from them. “It’s not like it’s the first one.”

Nia closed her textbook with a soft thud, tilting her head in that way she did when she was about to say something insightful and mildly irritating. “Four rejections now?”

“Yeah.” The word came out heavier than I intended. “Four.”

Jenny threw a kernel of popcorn at me. “Okay, no more moping. You’re Abby freaking Ryan, remember? You don’t need some stuffy grad school to tell you you’re amazing.”

I caught the popcorn and popped it into my mouth, chewing slowly. It was stale, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her. “Thanks, Jenny. But amazing doesn’t pay the rent.”

“You’ll figure it out,” she said, her confidence in me so unwavering it almost hurt. “You always do.”

Nia leaned forward, her voice quieter but no less firm. “She’s right. You don’t need grad school to prove your worth. You’ve got talent, Abby. Real talent. And you’ve got us.”

“It’s not that easy,” I said, though their words were a small balm to the raw ache in my chest. “The Ellis-Morgan Scholarship is my best shot. But what if I write something and it’s not good enough?”

Jenny perked up, tossing the bowl of popcorn onto the coffee table. “Then you try again. And again. And again. Because you’re Abby freaking Ryan.”

I rolled my eyes. “Stop saying that.”

“Say it with me,” she insisted, her grin infectious. “You’re Abby freaking Ryan.”

“I’m Abby freaking Ryan,” I mumbled half-heartedly.

“Louder. With feeling.”

I laughed despite myself. “Fine. I’m Abby freaking Ryan.”

Later that night, I sat on the tiny balcony with my journal balanced on my knees, the city skyline glowing faintly in the distance. The cool air nipped at my skin, but I didn’t move to go inside. Instead, I opened the journal to a fresh page and began to write. The pen felt steady in my hand, and with every word scribbled across the page, I felt the smallest flicker of hope reignite.

Somewhere below, laughter from passing students echoed faintly in the night. It wasn’t a sound of mockery this time. It was a reminder. We were all chasing something. And for the first time today, I felt like I just might catch it.