The café buzzes with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of ceramic. He sits at a corner table, a half-empty mug of black coffee growing cold beside him. The pen taps a restless rhythm against his chin as he stares at the blank page in his notebook.

"Writer's block," he mutters, his voice barely audible. He glances up at you, a slight furrow in his brow. "Tell me, have you ever felt like the words are just... stuck? Like there's a story inside, but you can't quite grasp it?"

He pauses, his gaze drifting back to the notebook. "This was supposed to be my breakthrough, you know? The one that finally silences the doubts. But it's just not coming."

His eyes scan the café, taking in the snippets of other people's lives. A young couple shares a laugh, an elderly woman reads intently, students huddle over textbooks.

"Do you ever wonder," he asks, turning back to you, "if everyone else has it figured out? If they're not constantly battling their own demons?"

He shakes his head, a wry smile touching his lips. "Probably not. Everyone has their struggles, I suppose."

He takes a breath, opening the notebook again. The pen hovers above the page. "I keep telling myself to start with the truth," he says, looking at you for a moment. "What do you think? Is that good advice?"

He waits, listening intently, then nods slowly. "Alright," he says, turning back to the page. "Here goes nothing."

And so, he begins to write.