Page 41 of The Silence Between

She slid a mock-up cover across the glossy table—another silhouetted figure against a dramatic skyline, interchangeable with my previous books. My agent, Melissa, made approving noises beside me, already mentally calculating the advance.

“Essentially the same book in a different location,” I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.

A brief pause followed, the kind that happens when someone deviates from script.

“A natural evolution,” Brendan corrected smoothly. “Giving readers what they've come to expect from the Ethan Webb experience while introducing fresh elements.”

The Ethan Webb experience. As if I were a theme park ride, designed to provide the same carefully calibrated thrills with minor seasonal variations.

“And what exactly is that experience?” I asked, surprising myself with the question. “Because I'm not sure I recognize my own writing anymore.”

Melissa's hand settled on my arm in warning. The executives exchanged glances, professional smiles never wavering.

“Your authentic voice, of course,” said Amelia. “Just packaged for optimal market penetration.”

Something broke inside me then, a dam holding back three years of accumulated frustration.

“There's nothing authentic about this process,” I said, closing my laptop with more force than necessary. “We're not talking about literature anymore. We're talking about product development.”

“Ethan,” Melissa hissed beside me, but I continued.

“I started writing because I had something to say. Now we're just finding new ways to say the same marketable nothing.” I stood, gathering my materials. “I can't do this anymore.”

Brendan's smile tightened. “Perhaps we should take a short break.”

“No need,” I said. “I'm done.”

The meeting dissolved into awkward murmurs. Melissa followed me into the hallway, her face flushed with contained panic.

“What the hell was that?” she demanded once the conference room door closed behind us. “Do you have any idea how hard I worked to set up this meeting? Your contract obligates you to deliver a manuscript in six months!”

“I'll pay back the advance,” I said, surprising myself with the decision even as I voiced it.

“With what money? You just got divorced! You think teaching high school is going to cover Manhattan rent plus a six-figure repayment?” She lowered her voice, switching tactics. “Look, everyone has creative doubts. Take a few days, go to that writing retreat in Vermont you liked, but don't torpedo your entire career over temporary frustration.”

But it wasn't temporary. It had been building since my second novel, when I first compromised my vision to meet publishing expectations. The third book had been written almost entirely to specification, and its commercial success had only deepened my creative despair.

“I'm sorry,” I said, meaning it. Melissa had been a good agent, working within the system as it existed. “I'll send you a formal letter withdrawing from the contract.”

I walked away from her sputtering objections, finding momentary sanctuary in a bathroom stall. There, in the sterile quiet, I waited for regret or panic to hit. Instead, I felt an overwhelming relief—as though setting fire to my carefully constructed success had finally cleared space to breathe again.

I pulled out my phone and opened the email I'd been drafting and deleting for weeks:

Marcus,

I accept the teaching position. Will arrange move details immediately.

Ethan

My thumb hovered over “send” for only a moment before pressing down, committing to a future I couldn't clearly see but that had to be better than the hollow present I'd constructed.

* * *

Two weeks later,I stood amid half-packed boxes in my Seattle apartment, sorting the accumulated evidence of my literary career. Awards went into one container, professional correspondence into another destined for recycling, books into sturdy boxes labeled by genre.

In a closet bin of pre-Seattle materials, I discovered notebooks from graduate school—full of earnest writings before I'd learned to calculate market appeal. Reading random passages revealed a voice I barely recognized, raw and imperfect but alive in ways my published work had gradually ceased to be. I set these aside, suddenly protective of these artifacts from before success had reshaped my writing.

Beneath these notebooks lay a folder marked simply “Riverton,” containing high school mementos I hadn't examined in years. Debate certificates. English class essays. A newspaper clipping about our regional championship. At the bottom, a stack of pages caught my attention—handwritten on lined paper rather than printed, the penmanship not immediately familiar.

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