She was that girl. The one whose laughter filled corridors. The one who could start conversations with strangers, turn silence into warmth, make people feel seen. Everyone called her funny, easy to talk to, the life of the group. She loved that. Truly.

Because she did love people, loved making them smile, loved hearing “we need you here.” But no one really saw what happened after.

When the lights turned soft, and the crowd was gone, and her own heart spoke in whispers she couldn’t say aloud. That’s when she opened her notebook. Pages that waited quietly. Pages that never interrupted, never rolled eyes, never compared. She poured words onto paper like bleeding ink: all the fears she laughed away, all the questions she hid behind jokes, all the loneliness that clung to her even in the middle of applause.

Yes, she wanted to be an author. Not to prove herself — but to free herself. Because speaking the truth out loud felt like standing naked in a crowded room. But writing? Writing felt like finally breathing without permission. People thought extroverts never get lonely.

They never saw her cry over a blank page. They never knew she’d rewrite a single sentence ten times, afraid of sounding foolish. They never heard her heart say: “What if I’m not enough? What if they don’t understand?” But paper always did. Paper didn’t care how pretty her words looked. It cared about how true they felt. One day, maybe, she’d let the world read those pages. Maybe her voice — quiet on paper, loud in crowds — would help someone else feel less alone. But until then, she wrote for the one reader who mattered most: herself.

Because in the end, she knew: “People may judge. But papers? Papers don’t judge.”

He was that boy who always pulled off hilarious pranks to the utter dismay of his teachers and co-workers.

Every night he would go home satisfied from a good day's worth of pranking and sit in his closet.

When he was sure no-one was around he closed the door and turned on the fairy lights revealing a pot of markers, chalk, pencils and crayons next to a piece of paper.

He began and thought to himself "I want to be an illustrator as people may but pictures don't judge."