Alex loved drawing. Their room was a monument to creativity: sketchbooks overflowing, colored pencils scattered like jewels, and walls covered in designs for the greatest comic book ever made: The Star Seekers of Planet X.
The only problem was, the comic book wasn't made. Not yet.
Alex had been talking about The Star Seekers for six months, but the actual, physical work sat in a pile of clean, white paper on the desk. Every night, before Alex went to sleep, they would stare at the desk, and a chill would creep up their spine.
The feeling had a name, a name Alex never spoke aloud: The Great Zero.
The Great Zero wasn't a monster with claws or teeth; it was the chilling, suffocating dread of the blank page. It wasn't the monster you feared when the lights went out, but the one you feared when the lights were on and you knew you had work to do.
The Zero lived in the space where the task should be. It grew stronger the longer Alex avoided the work.
Tonight, the feeling was unbearable. The room was oddly cold, even though the window was shut. Alex felt a heavy pressure in the air, pushing down like a thick blanket. When Alex looked at the white pile of paper, the edges seemed to blur, sucking the light out of the room.
Why start? The Zero seemed to whisper, not in Alex’s ear, but inside their head. It’s too big. Too hard. You’ll never finish. You’ll just ruin the perfect white surface.
Alex knew that if they gave in and just went to bed, the Zero would win. The task would remain undone, and the icy, heavy pressure of failure would stick around until morning. It was a terrifying cycle.
Suddenly, Alex remembered something their art teacher always said: "The hardest line to draw is the first one."
Alex sat up in bed, heart pounding. The Zero was massive now, making the desk look like it was miles away. Its chilling pressure was designed to keep Alex paralyzed, unable to move.
It doesn't want me to start, Alex realized. It feeds on the nothingness.
Alex didn't try to stand up or grab a pencil. That was too much. Instead, they reached out and grabbed the nearest thing—a bright, yellow marker—and threw it directly at the stack of white paper.
It landed with a soft thud, and the cap popped off, leaving a tiny, bright yellow dot on the very top page.
It wasn't a masterpiece. It wasn't even a line. It was just a dot.
But in that instant, the heavy, suffocating feeling vanished.
The icy pressure lifted, the shadows retreated, and the room felt instantly lighter. The Great Zero—the chilling embodiment of procrastination—couldn't exist anymore, because the page was no longer truly blank. There was a mark. There was a start.
Alex jumped out of bed, adrenaline pumping. The dot was right where it landed. It was small, messy, and totally imperfect, but it was the start of The Star Seekers of Planet X.
Alex picked up the marker and, feeling lighter than air, drew the first real panel. The Great Zero was gone, chased away by a single, brave, yellow dot.
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