You don't have a story, that's why you can't plot it
Sorry in advance, because I'm about to piss some of you off. But it needs saying.
I've been writing fiction for over 20 years. Here's how it used to work: you imagine something, that something lives inside you and won't shut up, so you write it down. That's it. The whole process runs from the inside out. A story catches fire in you and burns hot enough that putting it into words isn't optional, it's the only way to stop it from burning a hole where your heart used to be. You don't choose to write the story. The story chooses you, and you're just the delivery system.
Now I see people asking things like: "I don't know what to do," "I can't plot," "What happens next to my character?", "I wrote myself into a corner," "How do I stay motivated?", "I can worldbuild but I have no idea how to make a story out of it."
Brother. That's because you don't have a story.
Here's what writing looks like today, and why so many people quit halfway through: you consume something cool, you decide you want to be cool too, you decide that means writing a story, and then you're stuck. You're not in love with a story. You're in love with the idea of being a writer. There's nothing burning in you, nothing driving this from the inside. You've romanticized a story that never existed in the first place. So when you sit down to actually write it, you're lost, confused, staring at a blank page. Of course you are. You can't pour out something that was never in the container to begin with.
So do everyone a favor. Get bored. Put the phone down, the one you're staring at six hours a day. Sit with nothing to do and let your brain wander somewhere. Go find your story. That sequence of events inside you, the one that actually means something, that you've wanted to tell since before you knew how. Live inside it for a while. Let yourself enjoy the strange loop of creating something and feeling it at the same time, which is honestly one of the only genuinely magic things about having a human brain. You're the universe, looking at itself.
Go find your teenage elf crossing the valley to track down her long-lost goblin friend. Find your washed-up, middle-aged swashbuckler scraping together a spot on that treasure-hunting airship, chasing the floating island he's dreamed about since he was a kid. Find your sickly, pale girl signing up for the war effort to defend the space station she calls home. Find out exactly what Jason would do for one more minute with Jenna.
Then, and only then, write.