“The Author of My Tomorrow”

The Author of My Tomorrow

By [Ali Rehman]

I used to think I was the only author of my life — that every choice, every step, was mine alone to write. But lately, something strange has been happening. It’s as if someone else is holding the pen, scripting my days before I even live them.

It started with little things. I would wake up knowing exactly what would happen — not just vague feelings, but specific events. The way the rain would tap my window at precisely seven-fifteen, the song that would play on the radio as I turned the key in the ignition, the exact words my friend would say before I even answered the phone.

At first, I thought I was imagining things. Maybe it was a trick of memory or coincidence. But the moments kept piling up, like chapters in a story I hadn’t yet read but somehow already knew.

One afternoon, sitting in a café, I read a message on my phone that I hadn’t typed — a text from someone named Lila that said, “Meet me where the sun sets and stories begin.” I blinked, confused. The message felt real, urgent.

I looked around the café. No one was watching me, no one near me seemed to know. The words felt like a summons.

Days passed, and the strange messages multiplied. They weren’t just texts. Notes appeared on my desk, written in delicate script. Emails arrived from unknown senders, containing snippets of conversations I hadn’t yet had.

The strangest thing was that the notes often contained advice — gentle nudges, warnings, sometimes comfort. They felt like a guide, written by someone who knew me deeply, who cared.

I started calling this mysterious figure “The Author of My Tomorrow.”

I began to follow the clues, piecing together a trail through the city. The notes led me to quiet parks where the light dappled through leaves like words on a page. They guided me to forgotten bookstores and cozy cafés where the air smelled of old paper and dreams.

Each place was a chapter in a story someone else was writing — my story. And I was both the protagonist and a reader, desperate to meet the person who held the pen.

One rainy evening, the latest note directed me to the pier just as the sun was setting. The sky blazed with colors I hadn’t known existed — gold melting into rose, bleeding into twilight blue.

There, standing alone by the water, was a woman with hair like autumn leaves and eyes full of stories. She held a leather-bound journal, worn but cared for, as if it held the weight of many lifetimes.

My heart pounded. Could this be the author? The one who had been quietly scripting my days?

I approached her hesitantly. “Are you… the one writing my tomorrow?”

She smiled, a sad, knowing smile. “I’m not sure if I’m writing your tomorrow, or if your tomorrow has always been waiting for me to find it.”

I stared, searching her eyes for answers. “Why me? Why write my life?”

She sighed, opening the journal. “Because sometimes, the stories that need to be told are the ones that haven’t been told yet. Because your story is unfinished, and I’m here to help you write the chapters you’ve been too afraid to live.”

We talked as the sky darkened, sharing stories and dreams. She told me she had been watching me — not to control, but to guide. To remind me that the future isn’t set in stone, but a canvas waiting for the courage to paint.

“Life isn’t about following a script,” she said softly. “It’s about choosing which stories to tell, which endings to rewrite, and which new beginnings to create.”

That night, I went home clutching the leather journal. For the first time, I felt both the weight and the freedom of the story ahead.

I understood that I am both author and character — that my tomorrow is a collaboration between fate and choice, between written words and lived moments.

The Author of My Tomorrow isn’t someone distant. She is the voice inside me, the hand that writes when I am too afraid to hold the pen myself.

And so, I began to write — not just with ink on paper, but with every breath and step, every decision and dream. I became the author of my own tomorrow, knowing that the story will never truly end, but always unfold.