Owen Felix used to think that he was going to do a lot with his life. When he was younger, he used to imagine such a large amount of things that he needed two full shelves of his closet to store his notes, and kept it that way even though two proved to be insufficient after the organized pile fell on the floor to be sorted out again at least once a week. He liked to fix things anyway; it felt kind of important, even if it wasn't. These were almost all ideas for books, with a few exceptions like games and inventions he knew he'd never create.

His father always told him to get a job, to just, "Figure out what you're going to do like everyone else has already," because it is ridiculous to, "Waste your time on these...whatever they are. Projects? They're pointless ideas." This was the general reaction a lot of people had to him. He seemed strange and was not in a very accepting place. Owen had been stuck with his father until he was 18, and then he left after packing one suitcase. Upon looking for a letter he once received from him now deceased mother in a file cabinet in his father's office room, he found a will from her granting him a certain amount of money. It wasn't enough money to do much with, but it was more than none which was what he'd had prior to that moment. It was a very Cinderellaesque thing.

Anyway, he'd done some things, and then other things, all of which led to a 32-year-old Owen Felix working as a banker in a small town in Florida. If the younger version of himself could see this, he would've been very disappointed; this Owen was boring by all accounts. All of the ideas he'd stored away had now become stored in a more permanent way: out of his life. They were left in his suitcase buried somewhere in his attic among other unimportant things. Even though he wasn't one to change his mind because of something someone else said, after hearing the same things a seemingly infinite amount of times, he realized the ideas really had been pointless.

He watched the doors open and saw a younger couple walk to an employee ten feet away. A TV mounted on the wall to the right was already playing Christmas music, even though it was only Thanksgiving tomorrow. This only annoyed him because most things annoyed him. Not necessarily in a grumpy-old-man kind of way, but more in a way resembling what happens when a person wishes they had a different life. He subtly glared at the TV, and when he looked back he jumped slightly, as there was suddenly an old man there, looking at him.

After the man didn't say anything, Owen hesitantly said hello with a confused tone.

"Thanksgiving is great, isn't it?" The man smiled warmly.

"Yeah..." Owen leaned on the counter separating them. "It's nice. Can I help you with something?"

"You're lying," the old man chuckled. "You don't like Thanksgiving."

Owen was about to ask what this person was doing when the man spoke again.

"Not a lot of people know it, but if you make a wish on Thanksgiving, it'll actually come true," the man said, wearing an encouraging expression.

After an awkward pause, "Yeah," Owen smiled uncomfortably, "I'll keep that in mind."

The old man stood there for a moment seeming to stare down Increasingly Uncomfortable Owen, then walked to the door, pausing to wave before saying:

"It will be a star. That'll be the right one."

Then he left.

After narrowing his eyes at the man's cryptic phrase, Owen realized something. This was a line of dialogue he'd written in one of those papers he'd put away. He vaguely remembered that it was a conversation between two characters. It had actually been a pretty well written thing; that wasn't even the best line. He was kind of disappointed.

He ran out of the building and looked around, trying to be polite as he pushed past a few people, but the old man was already gone. He sighed and looked up irritably. As soon as he did, a shooting star faintly lit up the sky, and although it seemed to be slower than normal ones, he knew it wasn't a satellite. The dim light flickered across his reflective eyes and he hastily wished that the ideas were actually important.

When the star disappeared, he was drawn out of the inspiration that filled his thoughts for a second and realized that he could've at least wished for something more useful, but the moment had passed and the wish would not come true regardless. He was about to walk back into the bank when he saw someone that looked strangely familiar. It was a guy about his age wearing a leather jacket over a dark green shirt, worn out jeans, and sunglasses (even though it was night), with dark, messy hair. Even though it'd been over ten years since Owen had anything to do with him, he still had the mental image clearly imprinted in his memory. Though he'd never actually seen this person.

Being mocked and bullied most of his high school career, Owen had created a character who always showed up at the right times to save people, especially Owen himself. The character was a man in his thirties who didn't have any superhuman abilities or anything especially different than normal people, he was simply a good person. That was rare enough to be a gift in Owen's mind then. That was one of the only stories he'd actually really written. Not in order or with any plot per se, but he'd become a well developed character nonetheless. His name was Atlas West.

And Atlas West was standing a few feet away, looking into the window of an electronics store. Owen knew that it was crazy and could not be true, but a quieter part of himself knew that it was happening anyway.

"Not usually one to window shop, but these things are really strange," said Atlas as he glanced at Owen.

"Who wants that? Who wants some..." Atlas squinted at the price of an iPhone. "Overpriced phone that'll make you look ridiculous?"

He looked sideways at Owen, who shrugged and replied simply, "Not me." After pausing for a moment, Owen looked at his own unclear reflection and continued, "Well, I would, actually. But you're supposed to be the guy who makes me think I don't want things I can't afford."

Atlas pretended to be shocked. "As if I don't have a mind of my own? Ever heard of free will?" He turned away from the window and took off his sunglasses.

He said, "I'm not the guy who's supposed to do anything... I can't believe I wear these things when it's dark. This is pathetic." He looked at the sunglasses with disgust for a moment before tossing them to a passing stranger. The woman looked at him, confused, and hesitantly took them as she hurried away.

Owen nodded slowly then turned to Atlas and said, "Why did I ever do that? You're supposed to be a great guy and you wear sunglasses at night."

"Hey," Atlas pointed at him, "I wore them. And don't judge people so quickly. I can say it because it's me."

Atlas began to walk away from the window and Owen followed, in a sort of shock-like trance that prevented him from questioning it. He supposed it could just be some weird man working with the other one who'd seen the stories and was playing some kind of prank, but it wasn't that. He just knew it wasn't without having to wonder why-which was strange, since Owen was usually the type to ask why about everything. It was that kind of curiosity that used to cause him to always have ideas.

Atlas stopped abruptly to avoid walking into traffic. Owen had to quickly step backward to prevent himself from running into Atlas. This caused him to hit someone behind him. There was a disgruntled noise from said person and Owen looked behind to apologize.

Collin Radford. Suit and tie, perfect hair, obnoxiously handsome. Owen knew it was Collin because he'd seen pictures, and because Collin looked very similar to how he'd looked earlier. Owen didn't know what he was doing here, but probably for a business something-or-other.

Out of all the bullies Owen faced in high school, Collin was the worst. He was never a stereotypically overweight or stupid person. He was good in school, loved by all the adults he met, and had a group of loyal friends. Not followers-they never even knew about the kind of person he really was. He had real friends. And he was nice to them, because he was nice to some people. But he was not nice to Owen. Always seeing himself as more than those who were not as good at things as he was, Collin noticed how Owen fell behind his many students in academic ability, since so much of his time was spent on things that had nothing to do with it. So it started out as simple, small but cruel comments, and progressed into a few actual unsolicited fights. Punching, kicking, full on fights. No one would believe that Collin was capable of such a thing, so eventually Owen had no one to tell. Except one nonexistent person. In the stories, Collin was Atlas' nemesis. Maybe in real life, he was involuntarily Owen's.

Atlas looked at Collin, sizing him up, and leaned sideways on the wall of a building next to him. He looked bored, nodding to himself the way Owen had, and exuded patronization.

"Pretty sure I'm gonna have to kill you," he drawled.

Collin's eyes widened and he seemed unsure about whether this was a joke or not. He looked like he was about to say something but stopped and started walking away. Atlas stepped in his way.

"Do you know who this guy is?" Atlas gestured to me.

"I have no idea," Collin said, his hands moving in a frustrated motion as he spoke.

Atlas didn't seem surprised. He sighed, and Owen felt like it was the calm before a storm. He looked at Atlas, warning him not to do anything, then spoke to Collin.

"We went to school together." Owen narrowed his eyes slightly as he waited for any kind of recognition, then continued. "I was...we weren't really friends. Um. Owen Felix."

It briefly appeared that Collin understood, then it was obvious that he was only pretending to.

"No, I remember you." Collin said enthusiastically, pausing to come up with something. "You were great. In that thing you...were in? I wish we'd been better friends." He tried to smile. "I'll see you later, okay?"

He glanced at the two before promptly rushing away.

After he was gone, Atlas said, "That was some showdown. You really told him what's up."

Owen sarcastically smiled and started walking back to the bank.

"That's very you, isn't it." Atlas muttered flatly.

Owen turned around, confused.

"What is?"

Atlas shrugged. "Walking away. Not caring. Not even trying anymore. That's what you do."

Now scowling, Owen replied, "Are you kidding me?"

"No. You used to do what you actually liked, now you're working at a bank?"

"I like working at a bank," Owen said defensively.

"Come on," Atlas replied incredulously. "You don't."

Owen was ready to say something that would prove his fictional character wrong, but instead, he sighed in defeat and folded his arms.

"I've been the one to tell this guy he's an idiot for too long. It's your turn." Atlas pointed to the direction Collin had left. "I don't care if he's a changed man or whatever he's going to tell you."

"It's been years. It's been ten years!" Owen said. "I'm not a writer anymore, if you could even call it that, and I'm not going to get angry about something that happened in high school."

"You're not angry?" Atlas sauntered past and continued to walk as Owen followed, increasingly annoyed. "Not angry at all that no one liked you or believed in you, or that some condescending kid hated you for no reason? It doesn't matter that you were left with a father who wanted nothing to do with you unless he was telling you what to do? Or that you've never had enough money? You're not upset about all the things you gave up on?" Atlas frowned and looked at Owen. "Wow. I'm more angry at you than him."

"Then why don't you tell him?" Owen asked, exasperated.

"No way," Atlas said firmly as they crossed the street.

"Why not?"

"Because you're being a petulant child, and you're never going to get anywhere if you don't do something about your life."

This comment somehow surprised him more than the others. Now it was future tense. If you don't do something, you won't get anywhere. He could deal with his past being unfortunate, but the idea of his whole life being spent at a bank with the "40 Top Hits" channel playing on repeat, watching happy people easily take hundreds of dollars from their accounts, was not appealing.

As he thought of this, he realized they were walking directly toward Collin Radford again. More successful than Owen had ever been, probably happily married as opposed to Owen's failed relationships thus far, and most likely had toddlers who could already invest in the stock market and get a 2300 on the SATs.

Collin was still a fair distance away, now turning to walk around a corner. They followed, but heard upset, hushed voices right before they reached him. Atlas and Owen stood against the brick wall of a book store.

"You'll find one. They don't know what they're missing," said a woman's gentle voice.

"And the others don't know either. The one tomorrow won't know. The one after that won't," Collin's voice replied, sarcastic and cross.

Owen looked at Atlas, who shrugged.

"It wasn't that great of a job anyway. Maybe you were just overqualified," the woman replied. I could hear the encouraging smile she wore.

There was a pause, then Collin said quietly, "I really hope it's going to work out somewhere."

"It will."

There was a shuffling noise as the two voices left. Owen was the first to look past the corner, wondering if this was really the guy who had treated him that way in high school. How could someone who'd done so well not have a job? He saw Collin and the woman, presumably his wife, disappear.

Owen looked back at Atlas. "Changed man?"

"Maybe not," Atlas said slowly. "But probably one who doesn't need you telling him off tonight."

"That was easier than I thought." Owen smiled slightly.

"What?"

"Not having to talk to him."

Atlas rolled his eyes. They were now standing in front of the book store and Owen looked into it. He saw all the colorful covers and watched people walking past the shelves. They carefully choose the books that contained words which could change their life, or make them mad, or make them care about something that didn't used to matter.

Atlas glanced sideways at him and cleared his throat.

"You shouldn't be working at a bank."

"I know. I hate it." Owen said without looking away. "You know, at least once a week, someone comes in and asks one of us to buy stock for them. How do they not know we don't do that?" He paused. "I actually think it's the same person every time."

Atlas laughed briskly then tentatively said, "That thing the weird old guy said, do you remember writing it?"

"So you are here because of that?" Atlas waved the question away and Owen added, "Yeah, I guess. It was a long time ago."

"Why don't you write like that anymore?"

"Because I don't write at all."

"Why not?"

Owen raised his eyebrows. "You're asking a lot of questions. You already know why. I just gave up."

Atlas thought for a moment and looked right at Owen.

"Who cares that your life used to suck? You were a great writer-"

Owen interrupted, "Hardly a writer-"

"Shut up. You had good ideas. Really good ideas, and you put them in your attic. Literally. Now you work at a bank and live in a small house and haven't had a successful relationship..." Atlas stopped talking momentarily due to Owen's expression. "Sorry. But you can do better, and you know it. There's all these different things a person can be, and you're like a...math textbook right now. That thing you wrote, it meant that the right person to be is a star. Which I would've worded differently, but you're a walking cliche, so whatever. I guess it seemed like the best metaphor at the time?"

Owen remembered a girl he used to know who lived in the town where he went to high school. Her name was Emma Copley. He didn't think about her too often, since for some reason it usually made him feel guilty for never saying he was leaving. Emma didn't know much about him, but they'd talked a few times and he'd had a crush on her for the entirety of his high school career. One night, he was outside and she was riding her bike past his house, and somehow they ended up looking at the stars in the unusually clear sky together. A star seemed like a good thing to be. Sometimes he wished Emma would show up here.

"Anyway. It's getting late, so I'd better go back into my nonexistent world." Atlas began to walk around the corner and turned around as Owen spoke.

"That's it?" Owen asked promptly.

"Just like Indian in the Cupboard. Cried at the end of that one."

Owen drew his eyebrows together. "No you didn't."

"You think I only exist when you write me? I'd be dead by now."

Owen began to ask what that meant, but Atlas cut him off.

"Don't be a math textbook. No one likes them. Also, publish your stories. The ones with me, I mean." He saw the woman who he'd previously given the sunglasses to and asked for them back. The woman, again confused, did so. Atlas put the sunglasses back on and started for the corner again. "And with those exquisite closing remarks, goodbye. Don't disappoint."

He disappeared behind the side of the book store and, as Owen knew would happen, was gone. The past half hour or however long it had been seemed to be a strange dream.

Over the next month, Owen found his old stories and converted them from a quasi-manuscript into a typed book, adding plot and new characters. He changed the name of Collin and redeemed him in the end. He also changed the main character into someone a little better, who stood up for himself, told the girl he liked that he was leaving, and defeated his evil father. Despite Owen wondering if anyone would want to publish a story with such a basic idea, a company happily printed it three months later. It only took a few weeks after that for the general public to react, much more strongly than Owen had anticipated. While he wondered if it was too happy, they liked that it ended without disappointment, and while he was worried that it was clichéd, they found the writing more unique than most.

Owen found that another author was publishing a book at the same company his was published from, and that the author wanted to meet him. He drove the few hours to the main building, and soon found this person sitting on a spinning chair in an office. It was now in the opposite direction, but it soon spun around to face him, and the person smiled upon looking at him. Owen smiled back, surprised.

"Hi. I really liked your book," Said Emma Copley. "That one girl kind of reminded me of someone."