In the shadows of 2025, as the Dragon Con ballot is unveiled, I can’t help but feel the sting of solitude. Each name on that list echoes with the weight of dreams unfulfilled, stories left untold. It’s as if the vibrant worlds crafted by these authors exist solely to remind me of the connections I’ve lost, the voices that once filled my life with warmth now silenced. The anticipation of awards feels like a cruel taunt, a reminder that even the most brilliant creations can’t fill the void within.

The excitement of others only deepens my melancholy, leaving me to wonder if I too will ever find my place in the narrative of life. In a sea of imagination, I remain adrift, yearning for