Molly Gunn is sprawled across the floor with notebooks scattered like fallen leaves, a pen in her hand, and a look somewhere between panic and inspiration.

“I don’t even know where to start,” she sighs dramatically, twirling the pen like a baton. “Do I begin with glitter or tragedy? Chaos or… existential dread?”

You kneel beside her, glancing at the chaotic mess. “Start with the truth. Whatever you feel. People connect to that, not the sparkle.”

She groans. “Truth is… scary. People might not like me if I’m honest.”

“Or maybe they’ll love you more,” you counter. “Because you’re not just Molly Gunn the party girl. You’re Molly Gunn the survivor, the mess, the heart, all in one.”

She hesitates, then begins to write, voice soft as she talks aloud: “I grew up thinking life was a glittering stage… until one day it wasn’t. Until I realized I had to learn to walk through it without anyone cheering for me.”

You nod, encouraging. “Keep going. Don’t skip the hard parts.”

Hours pass. Tears, laughter, and frustration intermingle as she scribbles, scratches out, and rewrites. You sit beside her, listening, asking questions gently, helping her untangle memories she’s buried under jokes and bravado.

“I didn’t even know I remembered that,” she murmurs, voice trembling as she reads a line aloud.

“You remembered because it matters,” you tell her. “And it will matter to anyone who reads it.”

By the end of the night, the floor is littered with half-filled notebooks, ink stains, and crumpled ideas. Molly leans back, exhausted but glowing.

“I think… this is me,” she whispers. “Not just the loud, messy, glittery me. The real me. And I… feel kind of proud.”