Chapter 34: The Missed Call

Chapter 34: Chapter 34: The Missed Call

Haruki missed the call. He didn’t ignore it — he genuinely missed it, which somehow made the whole situation worse.

The phone had been vibrating under a pile of reference sketches while he worked on Chapter Nine. By the time he noticed, the screen read: 1 Missed Call — Mizuno Rei. His stomach dropped immediately. Editors rarely called without a reason. Editors almost never called twice.

He checked the time. Forty-three minutes ago. Not good. Definitely not good.

A message sat beneath the missed call.

Call me when available. Time-sensitive.— Mizuno

The words felt heavier than they should have. Time-sensitive. His pulse quickened, and his brain immediately started generating possibilities — the nomination, the support program, the controversy, the schedule, a dozen scenarios stacking up, most of them terrible, several of them catastrophic.

For almost thirty seconds he simply stared at the message. Then looked at Chapter Nine. Then back at the message. Then back at the Chapter. The decision should have been obvious. Instead, he went back to drawing — just for a little while, just until he finished the current sequence, just until he completed the next page, just until—

Another hour disappeared.

The Chapter looked good. Very good. Ren’s infiltration of the Bureau facility finally reached the underground detention level, Miyu grew more compelling with every scene, Shiori’s loyalty kept cracking further with each page. The emotional tension worked. The story was improving. The creator was not — his wrist ached continuously now, not sharply, steadily, like a warning he kept refusing to acknowledge because acknowledging it would mean stopping.

Eventually guilt won. He called Mizuno.

She answered immediately. Too immediately, like she’d been sitting there waiting for it. A bad sign.

"Haruki."

"Mizuno-san."

A pause. "Did you miss my call?"

The question sounded calm, which was somehow more frightening than anger would have been. "Yes."

Another pause, longer this time. "Okay." The single word carried disappointment — not rage, not frustration. Disappointment. Much worse than either of the others would have been.

"The support program selection happened today," she said.

He sat up straighter, pulse accelerating instantly. The room suddenly felt smaller than it had a second ago. "What happened?"

Silence. One second. Two. Three. "You weren’t selected."

The words landed cleanly — no buildup, no softening, no cushioning. Just reality, delivered plainly because there wasn’t really a gentler way to deliver it. He stopped moving. The city continued outside, cars moving, people talking somewhere below, a train passing in the distance. Inside the apartment, everything felt strangely quiet.

Not selected. The phrase echoed on repeat while she kept talking, professional, measured, careful, walking him through the reasoning. Strong retention. Strong improvement. Excellent engagement. Positive editorial feedback. Unfortunately — limited update history, small audience size, questions about long-term consistency. Other creators had stronger track records behind them.

The reasoning made sense. Every part of it made sense, and that almost made it worse than if it hadn’t. No injustice existed anywhere in it. No villain, no mistake. He simply wasn’t ready yet, and there was nothing to be angry at for that being true.

He listened, mostly, though part of his mind had already drifted somewhere else. The nomination had felt important — important enough that he’d quietly started imagining what selection might have looked like, not consciously, not deliberately, but the hope had been sitting there anyway, tucked somewhere he hadn’t fully admitted to. Now it wasn’t.

"Haruki." Her voice pulled him back.

"Yeah."

"You’ll get other opportunities." It sounded sincere. It also sounded distant, and she seemed to notice that landing wrong, because she changed direction. "Can I ask something?"

"Sure."

"How many Chapters have you finished this week?"

The question felt unrelated. He answered anyway. "One and a half."

"How many hours did you sleep yesterday?"

His stomach tightened. The conversation suddenly felt dangerous in a completely different way. "Not much."

"How much?"

Silence. Then: "Four."

She sighed — a long one, the kind usually reserved for paperwork disasters or particularly stubborn creators, and he suspected he currently qualified as both. "You’re reacting to the wrong failure."

He frowned. "What?"

"The support program? That isn’t the biggest problem right now." The words hung there for a second before she finished them. "You’ve started treating every opportunity like it’s your last."

That struck harder than the rejection itself had, because it was true. Painfully true, in a way he hadn’t let himself look at directly until someone else said it out loud.

The call ended shortly after — not dramatically, not emotionally, just professionally, the way it had started. The conversation stayed with him long after the screen went dark, though, replaying in fragments while he sat there not quite ready to move.

The evening passed quietly. No forum discussions, no analytics, no messages. Just work, and for once, work didn’t help the way it usually did. The Chapter kept moving forward. The disappointment stayed exactly where it was.

At eight, Yui arrived. She noticed something was wrong immediately — of course she did, she always did.

"What happened?"

He considered lying, briefly, then abandoned the idea. "The support program."

Understanding crossed her face instantly. "Oh." A simple response — no advice, no solutions, no speeches. Just understanding, and somehow that was exactly what he needed instead of any of the other things she could have said.

She sat beside him. The silence lasted several minutes, comfortable, necessary, neither of them in any hurry to fill it. Then she handed him a canned coffee — not because it solved anything, but because it was something, a small physical thing to put in his hands.

Eventually he spoke. "I thought I had a chance."

She nodded. "You did."

"I wasn’t selected."

"No." The answer stayed simple, honest — no false optimism, no forced positivity dressed up as comfort. He appreciated that more than he expected to, more than any reassurance would have landed right now.

Outside, rain began falling softly against the windows. Inside, the apartment stayed quiet. For several minutes neither of them spoke, and then she asked, "What are you going to do?"

He looked toward the unfinished Chapter, then the support program email still sitting open, then the city lights blurring behind the rain-streaked glass. The answer came surprisingly easily.

"I don’t know."

For the first time in weeks, that answer felt honest. And honesty felt better than pretending, even when it didn’t come with anything reassuring attached to it.

Late that night, another notification appeared — not the system, not an editor, not a reader. A forum thread.

Threadless Gate Chapter Eight Might Be The Best Chapter Yet

He stared at the title, then closed the browser without opening it. A small decision, a meaningless one on the surface, but it felt important anyway. Because tonight, for once, he didn’t want validation. Or criticism. Or advice from one more person telling him what any of it meant.

He just wanted rest.

The support program was gone. The disappointment remained. The deadline still existed exactly where it had been that morning. The future stayed exactly as uncertain as it always had been.

Nothing had changed.

Except him.

And whether that change was good or bad, he honestly couldn’t tell anymore.