Before I Pressed Publish (1)

The first comment appeared before I pressed publish.

At the time, I told myself it was a glitch  the kind you ignore because noticing it feels like admitting something is wrong.

 The draft page had been open for hours, the cursor blinking patiently at the end of the final sentence like it always did, waiting for a decision I wasn’t ready to make.

Outside, rain tapped softly against the apartment window. Not heavy rain  just that thin, persistent drizzle that turns the city into a quiet aquarium. Somewhere down the street, a vending machine hummed, its fluorescent light flickering through the curtain like a slow pulse.

I stretched my fingers, stiff from typing.

The chapter wasn’t perfect. It never was. But it was good enough  or at least that’s what I told myself every time I felt the familiar tightening in my chest before uploading. 

There’s a particular kind of silence that exists right before you show something to the world. It feels like standing at the edge of a pool, unsure whether the water will be warm or unbearably cold.

I moved the mouse toward the “Publish” button.

Then I noticed the number.

Comments (1)

I froze.

That wasn’t possible.

No one could comment before the chapter went live. The platform didn’t allow it  I’d been posting there long enough to know every small quirk, every delay, every notification sound by heart.

Maybe I’d refreshed without realizing.

I clicked the comment tab.

A single message appeared.

Anonymous: Thank you for your hard work. Please rest tonight.

For a moment, I simply stared at the screen.

It wasn’t threatening. Not strange, exactly. Readers often left polite messages  encouragement was common, especially on slow nights.

But the timestamp read:

Posted: 23:41

I checked the clock in the corner of my laptop.

23:38

Three minutes in the future.

I blinked, then refreshed.

The timestamp didn’t change.

A small laugh escaped me thin and uncertain. “Server lag,” I murmured to the empty room, though my voice sounded unfamiliar, as if it belonged to someone else sitting just out of sight.

I hovered over the user profile.

No icon. No history. No other comments.

Just Anonymous.

Rain continued its steady whisper against the glass.

I closed the comment tab and pressed publish.

The notification sound came almost immediately  a soft chime I’d heard hundreds of times before. Normally, it brought a small spark of satisfaction. Proof that someone, somewhere, had read my words.

Tonight, it felt louder.

I opened the page again.

Three comments now.

Anonymous: The opening scene feels heavy. I like it.

Reader_17: Looking forward to what happens next!

Anonymous: You seem tired lately.

My fingers paused above the keyboard.

“You seem tired lately.”

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. It was late, after all. Maybe I’d mentioned being exhausted in an author note recently. Readers paid more attention than I gave them credit for.

Still, something about the wording felt… personal.

I typed a quick reply beneath the first comment.

Thanks for reading! I’ll try to rest.

As soon as I hit enter, another notification appeared.

Anonymous: That would be good.

A small chill ran along my arms.

I told myself not to overthink it. Late-night sensitivity, nothing more. When you spend too long alone with words, your mind starts inventing patterns where none exist.

I shut the laptop halfway, letting the screen dim.

The apartment was quiet except for the refrigerator’s faint hum and the distant rumble of a passing train. Living here meant getting used to sounds footsteps in the hallway, pipes clicking softly at night, the occasional muffled conversation drifting through thin walls.

I stood and walked to the window.

Streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, stretching into long golden streaks. A lone umbrella moved slowly along the sidewalk below, its owner hidden in shadow.

For a moment, I wondered what it would feel like to be seen not just read, but truly noticed. To have people waiting for your next chapter, discussing your characters as if they mattered.

The thought lingered longer than I wanted to admit.

When I returned to my desk, the laptop screen glowed faintly.

A new notification pulsed.

I hadn’t touched it.

My stomach tightened.

I opened the lid.

Another comment.

Anonymous: Did you lock the door?

I stared at the words.

A quiet laugh escaped me sharper this time, defensive. “Of course I did,” I said aloud, though the room didn’t ask.

Still, I glanced toward the entrance.

The door stood exactly as it should  closed, chain hanging loosely, faint hallway light visible beneath the frame.

I shook my head and typed:

Yep. All good.

A pause.

Then:

Anonymous: Good.

The simplicity of the reply unsettled me more than any elaborate message could have.

I minimized the browser and opened a blank document, intending to jot down ideas for the next chapter. The cursor blinked patiently, indifferent to my unease.

After a moment, I closed it again.

Instead, I checked the comment section once more.

Five new comments had appeared.

Reader_17: The atmosphere is amazing tonight.

Anonymous: It’s quiet.

Anonymous: He always writes late.

Anonymous: The rain suits this chapter.

Anonymous: We’re still here.

My chest felt strangely tight.

“We’re still here.”

I refreshed.

The page flickered just for a fraction of a second as if the brightness dipped before returning to normal.

The comments remained.

I told myself it was coincidence. Readers often commented on weather or mood perhaps they lived in the same city. Perhaps I was simply noticing details I usually ignored.

Still, a faint unease lingered like the sensation of being watched from across a crowded train carriage, even when no one meets your eyes.

I stood and walked to the sink, pouring a glass of water.

As I drank, I noticed my reflection in the dark window pale, slightly distorted by raindrops sliding slowly down the glass. For a moment, it looked as though someone stood just behind me.

I turned quickly.

The room was empty.

“Enough,” I muttered.

Back at the desk, I hovered over the comment tab again, hesitating before clicking.

Another message appeared.

Anonymous: You shouldn’t stay up too late tonight.

A faint irritation rose in me a defensive instinct against something I couldn’t quite name.

I typed:

Why?

The reply came almost instantly.

Anonymous: Tomorrow is important.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Tomorrow?

I searched my memory deadlines, errands, anything unusual. Nothing came to mind.

Important how?

Three dots appeared beneath the comment  typing.

Then disappeared.

No reply.

I waited longer than I should have.

Eventually, I closed the laptop.

The room fell into a soft darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtain. I lay down on the futon, listening to the rain’s steady rhythm.

Sleep came slowly.

Just before drifting off, I thought I heard the faint chime of a notification.

I told myself I imagined it.

In the morning, pale light filled the room.

For a moment, everything felt normal the quiet, the soft hum of the city waking beyond the window.

Then I remembered.

My heart beat faster as I reached for the laptop.

The screen flickered to life.

The comment section was open.

Dozens of messages filled the page.

Scrolling slowly, I felt a strange numbness spread through my chest.

Most were ordinary reactions, speculation, casual remarks.

But near the top, one stood out.

Anonymous: He’s reading them now.

My breath caught.

Below it, another comment appeared.

Right before my eyes.

Anonymous: Let’s see what he does next.

I sat frozen, hands resting lightly on the keyboard.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

The city sounded strangely distant  as if separated by glass too thick to break.

At the bottom of the page, a new notification pulsed softly.

Poll created.

With slow, deliberate movements, I clicked.

A simple question appeared:

Should he keep writing?

Two options:

Yes.

Yes.