It is a story about women. Not the great ones, not the famous ones. Just ordinary women. The ones who work in salons, shops, offices, and schools. The ones who raise children, pay off loans, and smile at clients, only to come home in the evening and stare at the ceiling. The ones whose lives never made it into a book because they were too ordinary—and, for that very reason, the most important of all.

I would love to write about them. Not with pity, not with melodrama, but with respect. About how they hold it all together. How they find strength when they have none left. How they crack jokes when they want to cry. How they choose red lipstick so no one notices their world is falling apart inside.

I wouldn’t turn them into larger-than-life heroines; they would remain just as they are. Yet, each one would feel so real that a reader would recognize herself in them. And think: "Oh, that’s me. So, I’m not alone."

This book isn’t about success. It’s not about how to become rich and happy. It’s about the fact that an ordinary woman’s life is, in itself, a feat—quiet, daily, and unnoticed. And it deserves to be told.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get around to it. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But as long as this book lives inside me, I feel there is something important in my life. Even if it’s just a dream. Even if it never makes it onto the page.

What about you? Would you like to write a book? What would it be about?

Darya