someone made a edit w dark vacay on YouTube and so so nostalgic for no reason. It was giving iphone 5 photos. Lowkey CAS was so suitable. So thought I’d share it w CAS fans since it made me feel a feeling only CAS makes me feel.

The link is in the comments

It was an edit made by someone and was very nostalgic and dark vacay imo was the perfect fit for it.

Link in the comments

PAYDAY?????
Okay.
I genuinely don’t know what just happened.
Today was supposed to be payday, and I was expecting around 800 or 900. I thought maybe I’d get a little more if things worked out, but I wasn’t expecting anything crazy.

Then I checked my account.
1,326
I stared at it.
Then my phone dinged again.
+100 bonus
BRO.

AND THEN I REMEMBERED I WAS GETTING PAID FOR THE ACTING GIG TOO.
So somehow my first proper paycheck ended up being around 1,500
I CANNOT PROCESS THIS 😭😭😭
I was literally dancing around because WHAT DO YOU MEAN I JUST GOT PAID THAT MUCH???

And the funniest part is that I didn’t even feel like I was doing some horrible, exhausting job.
I was literally just… yapping.

That’s what gets me.
I got paid for speaking, communicating, being on camera, acting, and doing things I actually enjoy. I wasn’t sitting somewhere getting yelled at by a manager. I wasn’t dealing with weird customers for eight hours. I wasn’t doing something I absolutely dreaded and waiting for the day to end.

I was just doing what I normally do.
And apparently, what I normally do has monetary value.
That realization is honestly crazier to me than the money itself.

For years, I genuinely thought I was kind of hopeless when it came to work and careers.

Academics were never really my thing. I could never stick to things for very long, and I used to wonder whether I’d actually be capable of building a stable future for myself.

And now I’m sitting here like…
Wait. I can actually make money
😭
My mom was SO happy. She was basically cheering and telling me, “Never say you’re broke anymore. You’re going to make more.”

My little brother, meanwhile, apparently had been waiting his entire life for this exact moment because the second he knew I got paid, he grabbed the phone and started looking at the things he wanted.

Bro had a shopping list ready.
A SHOPPING LIST.
💀

My mom started deciding what she wanted too, and then we called my dad to tell him.

It became this whole tiny family celebration over my first paycheck.
And honestly, it felt really good.
Not because I’m suddenly rich. I’m absolutely not. 😭

1,500 isn’t going to change my entire life.
But it’s my firstpaycheck.
It’s proof.

Proof that I can take things I’m naturally good at and actually turn them into something.
And now my brain is doing that thing again where instead of thinking, I hope I can make money,I’m thinking:

“Okay… what else can I do?”

I’ve already been looking into websites, voice acting, acting, speaking work, writing, and other little opportunities.

A few months ago I would’ve laughed if someone told me I’d be this obsessed with finding ways to make money.

Now if I don’t have some little project going on, I genuinely feel weird.

Something definitely switched in me this year.

Maybe university changed me.

Maybe growing up changed me.

Maybe getting rejected enough times eventually made me stop caring.

Or maybe I finally realized that I don’t have to be amazing at the things I was never interested in. I can build around the things I actually enjoy.

And that’s probably the part I’m happiest about.
I made money doing something I \\\*\\\*liked\\\*\\\*.

That’s the part I want to remember.
So I have no idea what I’m spending this paycheck on yet.
Probably something for myself, something for my brother, maybe a little something for my mom.
But for now?
I’m just going to sit here and enjoy the fact that I got paid.
\\\*\\\*My first paycheck.\\\*\\\*
And somehow…
I want more. 😭💸

In the midst of the 19th century, there lay an island, rich in cultural heritage, bathing in a soft amber glow. While the air shimmered with sparks of hope, it also helplessly carried the aroma of suppression mixed with hints of rebellion. Amongst the constant havoc, a feeling arose, and it held a sublimity so immense, it enforced two individuals to submit and possess devotion to each other, despite their conditions. A fragile romance began to take root. It bloomed in defiance of oppression, and inevitably, it stole my breath away.

What I'm about to tell you is something that visits me every night, a repeated vision that occupies every fiber in my body and has robbed countless hours of my slumber. I have lived it over and over again and return to it without my permission. When my eyes close, they surrender to the darkness, and gently, the breeze starts to linger against my face, stirring the loose curls that have escaped to frame my rosy cheeks, like I have traveled back in time.

As I stare hopelessly at liquid gold pouring at the end of the sea, a longing lingers, laying heavy on my chest, like a part of my soul has been left with a foreigner. I'm sure this does not belong to me, yet the bittersweet ache is born every day, only deeply for him.

He, whose face I cannot recall.
He whose features blur and dissolve into the background as I look up at him, like he was never there.

The melancholy sets in.

Despite my failed attempts, I refuse to give up, and tonight, I willingly ask to be sent back.

My desire to be returned was granted, and I emerged back into the embrace of the forgotten era. The delicate chimes of the bangles surrounded me and gave birth to a heavenly melody that my ears longed to listen to.

And amongst that revealed a girl who glowed like a celestial being. She sat there with ethereal beauty only goddesses had the right to possess. It seemed like the angels themselves descended to carve her face into perfection. She effortlessly claimed hearts that would stop working at a slight glimpse of her face.

Just like always, her warm porcelain skin was draped in violet silk that hugged her curves gracefully, kissed by the glowing gold embroidery. She knelt, devoting herself to the art she was creating on the floors of the holy temple, while her fingers tightly curled around coloured powders and thoughtfully filled patterns which belonged at the sacred gates of heaven.

Immersed in the delicate symphony of the colors, she had no reason to look up; however, a divine intervention from something unknown forced her gaze upon someone.

A man.

A man that would never be hers.

A man society would never allow with her.

Though she didn't even glance at his face, his tailored uniform presented authority and power before he even had the chance to utter any words. His posture asserted dominance.

Dominance his people had over hers.
Dominance he would have over her.

She lowered her stare, defeated, and her eyes gently fell away from him, returning to the artistry beneath her hands. She would not allow them to memorize what her heart had no right to desire.

Yet, his gaze lingered and wrapped around her, refusing to let go. An invisible pull she could not physically escape, so she made a decision. She promised herself only a glimpse of him, enough to satisfy the growing thirst.

But her eyes would turn out to betray her completely.

As her kajal-rimmed obsidian eyes unwillingly lifted up, she caught sight of the most hypnotic pair of hazel eyes that had ever met hers. Filled with pools of melted honey and the warmth of autumn sunlight, when the sun hit them, a rare harmony of amber and earth bred. They pierced right through the walls around her soul and touched it with the affection and comfort no one had been capable of reaching. It spoke the most romantic language without uttering a single word. For a moment, they both remained like that, taking in the orgasmic bliss that was rushing through their veins, while even the universe itself had stopped to take in the purity of the feeling that was about to blossom.

Though the distance between both of them remained untouched, it seemed as if their souls had already made love, promising to intertwine for eternity and remain untouched by the prejudice society presents to them in each lifetime. Neither of them knew how long they'd been enslaved by the gravity of each other's presence.

Maybe a minute.
Maybe a second.
Maybe an entire lifetime.

They had no idea, and maybe they didn't want to, because the euphoric connection they were trapped in made them want to lose themselves in each other. That perplexed them beyond words. Why did they feel like they belonged to each other when they hadn't even shared more than a minute together? Why did her silence feel more intimate than the touch of a woman he had spent a whole night with?

Why did their hearts sync to the same rhythm simultaneously?
Why had it ignited a passion so intense?
Why?

A sharp voice called out, and I abruptly woke up. The same dream, vision, whatever this was, visited me again, and this time, I stepped further. I witnessed that riveting stare, and now it was miserably ingrained somewhere in the depths of my heart.

I will always carry the echo of when they spoke to me until, inevitably, I come across them again.

In the midst of the 19th century, there lay an island, rich in cultural heritage, bathing in a soft amber glow. While the air shimmered with sparks of hope, it also helplessly carried the aroma of suppression mixed with hints of rebellion. Amongst the constant havoc, a feeling arose, and it held a sublimity so immense, it enforced two individuals to submit and possess devotion to each other, despite their conditions. A fragile romance began to take root. It bloomed in defiance of oppression, and inevitably, it stole my breath away.

What I'm about to tell you is something that visits me every night, a repeated vision that occupies every fiber in my body and has robbed countless hours of my slumber. I have lived it over and over again and return to it without my permission. When my eyes close, they surrender to the darkness, and gently, the breeze starts to linger against my face, stirring the loose curls that have escaped to frame my rosy cheeks, like I have traveled back in time.

As I stare hopelessly at liquid gold pouring at the end of the sea, a longing lingers, laying heavy on my chest, like a part of my soul has been left with a foreigner. I'm sure this does not belong to me, yet the bittersweet ache is born every day, only deeply for him.

He, whose face I cannot recall.
He whose features blur and dissolve into the background as I look up at him, like he was never there.

The melancholy sets in.

Despite my failed attempts, I refuse to give up, and tonight, I willingly ask to be sent back.

My desire to be returned was granted, and I emerged back into the embrace of the forgotten era. The delicate chimes of the bangles surrounded me and gave birth to a heavenly melody that my ears longed to listen to.

And amongst that revealed a girl who glowed like a celestial being. She sat there with ethereal beauty only goddesses had the right to possess. It seemed like the angels themselves descended to carve her face into perfection. She effortlessly claimed hearts that would stop working at a slight glimpse of her face.

Just like always, her warm porcelain skin was draped in violet silk that hugged her curves gracefully, kissed by the glowing gold embroidery. She knelt, devoting herself to the art she was creating on the floors of the holy temple, while her fingers tightly curled around coloured powders and thoughtfully filled patterns which belonged at the sacred gates of heaven.

Immersed in the delicate symphony of the colors, she had no reason to look up; however, a divine intervention from something unknown forced her gaze upon someone.

A man.

A man that would never be hers.

A man society would never allow with her.

Though she didn't even glance at his face, his tailored uniform presented authority and power before he even had the chance to utter any words. His posture asserted dominance.

Dominance his people had over hers.
Dominance he would have over her.

She lowered her stare, defeated, and her eyes gently fell away from him, returning to the artistry beneath her hands. She would not allow them to memorize what her heart had no right to desire.

Yet, his gaze lingered and wrapped around her, refusing to let go. An invisible pull she could not physically escape, so she made a decision. She promised herself only a glimpse of him, enough to satisfy the growing thirst.

But her eyes would turn out to betray her completely.

As her kajal-rimmed obsidian eyes unwillingly lifted up, she caught sight of the most hypnotic pair of hazel eyes that had ever met hers. Filled with pools of melted honey and the warmth of autumn sunlight, when the sun hit them, a rare harmony of amber and earth bred. They pierced right through the walls around her soul and touched it with the affection and comfort no one had been capable of reaching. It spoke the most romantic language without uttering a single word. For a moment, they both remained like that, taking in the orgasmic bliss that was rushing through their veins, while even the universe itself had stopped to take in the purity of the feeling that was about to blossom.

Though the distance between both of them remained untouched, it seemed as if their souls had already made love, promising to intertwine for eternity and remain untouched by the prejudice society presents to them in each lifetime. Neither of them knew how long they'd been enslaved by the gravity of each other's presence.

Maybe a minute.
Maybe a second.
Maybe an entire lifetime.

They had no idea, and maybe they didn't want to, because the euphoric connection they were trapped in made them want to lose themselves in each other. That perplexed them beyond words. Why did they feel like they belonged to each other when they hadn't even shared more than a minute together? Why did her silence feel more intimate than the touch of a woman he had spent a whole night with?

Why did their hearts sync to the same rhythm simultaneously?
Why had it ignited a passion so intense?
Why?

A sharp voice called out, and I abruptly woke up. The same dream, vision, whatever this was, visited me again, and this time, I stepped further. I witnessed that riveting stare, and now it was miserably ingrained somewhere in the depths of my heart.

I will always carry the echo of when they spoke to me until, inevitably, I come across them again.

In the midst of the 19th century, there lay an island, rich in cultural heritage, bathing in a soft amber glow. While the air shimmered with sparks of hope, it also helplessly carried the aroma of suppression mixed with hints of rebellion. Amongst the constant havoc, a feeling arose, and it held a sublimity so immense, it enforced two individuals to submit and possess devotion to each other, despite their conditions. A fragile romance began to take root. It bloomed in defiance of oppression, and inevitably, it stole my breath away.

What I'm about to tell you is something that visits me every night, a repeated vision that occupies every fiber in my body and has robbed countless hours of my slumber. I have lived it over and over again and return to it without my permission. When my eyes close, they surrender to the darkness, and gently, the breeze starts to linger against my face, stirring the loose curls that have escaped to frame my rosy cheeks, like I have traveled back in time.

As I stare hopelessly at liquid gold pouring at the end of the sea, a longing lingers, laying heavy on my chest, like a part of my soul has been left with a foreigner. I'm sure this does not belong to me, yet the bittersweet ache is born every day, only deeply for him.

He, whose face I cannot recall.
He whose features blur and dissolve into the background as I look up at him, like he was never there.

The melancholy sets in.

Despite my failed attempts, I refuse to give up, and tonight, I willingly ask to be sent back.

My desire to be returned was granted, and I emerged back into the embrace of the forgotten era. The delicate chimes of the bangles surrounded me and gave birth to a heavenly melody that my ears longed to listen to.

And amongst that revealed a girl who glowed like a celestial being. She sat there with ethereal beauty only goddesses had the right to possess. It seemed like the angels themselves descended to carve her face into perfection. She effortlessly claimed hearts that would stop working at a slight glimpse of her face.

Just like always, her warm porcelain skin was draped in violet silk that hugged her curves gracefully, kissed by the glowing gold embroidery. She knelt, devoting herself to the art she was creating on the floors of the holy temple, while her fingers tightly curled around coloured powders and thoughtfully filled patterns which belonged at the sacred gates of heaven.

Immersed in the delicate symphony of the colors, she had no reason to look up; however, a divine intervention from something unknown forced her gaze upon someone.

A man.

A man that would never be hers.

A man society would never allow with her.

Though she didn't even glance at his face, his tailored uniform presented authority and power before he even had the chance to utter any words. His posture asserted dominance.

Dominance his people had over hers.
Dominance he would have over her.

She lowered her stare, defeated, and her eyes gently fell away from him, returning to the artistry beneath her hands. She would not allow them to memorize what her heart had no right to desire.

Yet, his gaze lingered and wrapped around her, refusing to let go. An invisible pull she could not physically escape, so she made a decision. She promised herself only a glimpse of him, enough to satisfy the growing thirst.

But her eyes would turn out to betray her completely.

As her kajal-rimmed obsidian eyes unwillingly lifted up, she caught sight of the most hypnotic pair of hazel eyes that had ever met hers. Filled with pools of melted honey and the warmth of autumn sunlight, when the sun hit them, a rare harmony of amber and earth bred. They pierced right through the walls around her soul and touched it with the affection and comfort no one had been capable of reaching. It spoke the most romantic language without uttering a single word. For a moment, they both remained like that, taking in the orgasmic bliss that was rushing through their veins, while even the universe itself had stopped to take in the purity of the feeling that was about to blossom.

Though the distance between both of them remained untouched, it seemed as if their souls had already made love, promising to intertwine for eternity and remain untouched by the prejudice society presents to them in each lifetime. Neither of them knew how long they'd been enslaved by the gravity of each other's presence.

Maybe a minute.
Maybe a second.
Maybe an entire lifetime.

They had no idea, and maybe they didn't want to, because the euphoric connection they were trapped in made them want to lose themselves in each other. That perplexed them beyond words. Why did they feel like they belonged to each other when they hadn't even shared more than a minute together? Why did her silence feel more intimate than the touch of a woman he had spent a whole night with?

Why did their hearts sync to the same rhythm simultaneously?
Why had it ignited a passion so intense?
Why?

A sharp voice called out, and I abruptly woke up. The same dream, vision, whatever this was, visited me again, and this time, I stepped further. I witnessed that riveting stare, and now it was miserably ingrained somewhere in the depths of my heart.

I will always carry the echo of when they spoke to me until, inevitably, I come across them again.

I don't know what to do or think, really. I keep checking whether the app is still installed on my phone. Every time I delete it, it comes back. I am typing this with trembling hands, and my heart hasn't stopped racing since yesterday. I really wish I hadn't taken up that job. I have no time or even the mental energy, really, to give you guys each and every detail, so I'll keep this short.

 Let me start from the beginning. My name doesn't really matter now, but for context, I am a business major and a full-time student at University Z. Like every university student, my lifestyle demands more money than the allowance I get from my parents each month. Between the monotonous routine of classes I followed every day, I desperately kept hunting for an opportunity. Small part-time gigs that would help me pay for my extra thrills and clubs. I couldn't stand mundane jobs, and internships at my university paid barely enough to scrape by, let alone fund my night adventures. I was desperate but also extremely selective. I wanted to do something I enjoyed but also get a decent amount for it. As if a genie had been listening, I got my wish granted, and soon a perfect opportunity got thrown my way.

 "Hiring native English speakers for a new English-speaking app. Get PAID just to send voice messages!" 

"No requirements other than speaking fluent English!" 

"Get paid up to $50."

 My jaw almost dropped to the floor when I saw I could potentially be getting paid a whole whopping 50 dollars for something I do every day effortlessly for free. No, really, I thought this job was specifically designed for people like me. In fact, even in university I had quite the reputation for being extremely extroverted and a chatterbox, and now someone had decided to fund those skills. There was no way in hell I'd be missing this heck of a golden opportunity, so I applied with the urgency I lacked when I had to submit assignments worth my entire grade. Fingers working faster than my brain even processed everything. I wish I had paused and questioned something that was this good to be true, and strangely convenient. Again, I was—I mean am—a dumb college student. I was blinded by my greed. 

And it was about to be costly. 

Soon I aced the interview (of course), heard back from my employer, and got handed a PDF with the instructions I'd need to follow in order to use the app. There were no strange rules or regulations, no excessive documentation, just plain, simple information on how to operate the app correctly and how I'd be getting paid through PayPal by the 8th of next month. It was as simple as it could get. I wondered, hah, maybe I had found a loophole and thanked God with a smile of mischief, already planning how I'd spend my money. Only if I knew how that smile would wipe off in a matter of a few days. 

It was a Wednesday and... upon opening the app, I was instructed to customize my account, so I put in my best picture (hoping I'd make some use of my good looks), added a short introduction about myself and my hobbies, and got started. Within a few minutes, I was flooded with friend requests from all sorts of people: students, bots, and some creepy randos. Hmm, there was no way I was accepting any of them. I decided to wait a little longer before proceeding, and then I stumbled across HIS profile. 

"Friend request by James, waiting to be accepted..."

 This one caught my eye because, unlike the others, this one was willing to ask about my day. He seemed invested in me rather than just trying to improve his speaking. He was a bit older, although his charming smile and unbuttoned black shirt weren't helping, so I accepted the request and sent two voice messages. The reply came back almost immediately. He was soft-spoken, controlled, almost as if, if he'd spoken a word or two too loudly, I would run away. The composure he had was slightly unsettling, but I found it sweet. Shaking my head, I convinced myself to remain professional and turned my attention back to the words he was saying. 

"Hey. I wasn't sure if you'd accept. It's really nice hearing your voice again." Again? I furrowed my brows.

 I had never even seen him before. What did he mean by again? I quickly brushed it off. This was an English learning app after all, and I'm pretty sure he misspoke a few words or so. I moved on quickly and continued our conversation. I shouldn't have. Days went on, and everything was going beyond perfect. I was attending my classes, going to parties, and ended up making even more friends from my new job. 

But James? He was my closest, and I had a soft spot for him more than I'd like to admit. I strictly prohibited myself from mixing my personal life with my professional one, but James kept getting in my way. I would spend hours and hours talking to him, and he'd listen. He understood each and every word I said as if he knew the next sentence I was about to say. Sometimes it unsettled me because his accuracy was terrifyingly correct, but logically I thought I'd met someone who understood me more than I could ever understand myself. 

There were instances, though, when things were just... unusual. 

Once I was upset about a math exam that was going to be worth my final grade. Being me, I had procrastinated studying, and now, two days before the exam, I had no idea what half of my syllabus even meant. Naturally, I shared this with James, and with the confidence only my math professor could have, he told me to go through specific pages from my book because those would be the core questions on my exam. At first, I laughed it off and thought he was bluffing, but regardless, I ended up studying those pages, secretly accepting that I would fail this semester. But when I saw the exact same questions, word for word, on my exam, I froze. Was James bluffing? Did he have connections with the professor? Was this a coincidence? Whatever it was, I assigned James as my lucky charm after that day. I wasn't going to question good things and ruin them by questioning every strange comment. 

But it just kept getting weirder. He would not only remember things I clearly hadn't told even my closest friends, let alone him, but he also knew what was going to happen to me. On one instance, he told me to call my mom and make up after the fight I had with her. I never told him that. Or did I? Any time I'd ask how he knew these things, he joked that he was my dead husband.

 I soon knew why. 

The memory of that day is still fresh and vivid in my mind. James and I were deep in conversation, almost forgetting the world beyond us existed. It had been quite some time talking to him on the phone, but now I itched to see him in real life, to feel his warmth against my skin, and to have his big hands cup my small face and reassure me that he would be by my side. I liked him enough to break my small rule, and therefore brought up the idea of a date. 

James chuckled, and I helplessly smiled. James explained that would never happen. 

"Why not?" I rebelled. 

"It's complicated, cupcake. Maybe one day in the afterlife." 

"Afterlife? Gosh, James, you're so dramatic." 

I rolled my eyes in fury, but to make it up to me, he sent me a picture of us generated by artificial intelligence. Oh, how I love this generation sometimes. We looked picture-perfect, me and him, together. I blushed far too much, and he had his fair share of fun teasing me. Then suddenly he said something that wiped the grin off my face in a second. 

"Do you still think about that accident, cupcake?"

 Every ounce of color drained from my face after I heard that sentence. I clutched onto my pearl necklace as tightly as I could to get an ounce of comfort, but I only ended up feeling suffocated instead. Suddenly, the room around me shrunk, and the walls started closing in. I closed my eyes and dropped my phone. Only one question repeated through my head. How could he possibly know? No one knew about the accident. 

Not my friends.

Not my family. 

Not even my mom. 

How did he? 

I had buried that accident so deep down, but now, against my will, my brain kept replaying the unpleasant sound of screeching tires. It was loud, excruciatingly loud, so loud that I had to cover my ears so they wouldn't bleed. I could still feel my intoxicated self gripping tightly onto the steering wheel while the smell of alcohol lingered around me like a nauseating fragrance. I could see the maroon blood that painted my car as clear as crystal. The flashing lights almost made my heart stop.

I killed someone. 

Soon, I blacked out. I woke up to the sun piercing through my cream curtains, and I was safe in my room. All of a sudden, the memories came rushing back to me, and soon adrenaline took over my body. I instinctively picked up my phone and saw one voice note from James. I decided I wasn’t going to open it. Not in a million years. The whole day passed, and I didn’t do anything except stare at a wall. I couldn’t move. I felt paralyzed by the memories I had tried so hard to conceal under my daily routine. I opened up my laptop and started digging for any information I could get on that night, maybe finding a clue as to how James could possibly know about the accident.

 I searched and searched countless websites, archives, and even videos, but I found nothing. No trace of my name linked to a crime. I went through forums and reports of crimes committed in our small town, but nothing. I was slightly relieved, to be very honest, but still perplexed about James. 

Who was he? Then I typed in his full name. Pressed search. 

And I wish I never did. 

I came across an archived article with his name in bold, paired with words I never anticipated would be related to him. 

“James, 26, pronounced dead this Saturday after attempting to help an intoxicated driver.” “No trace of the driver found yet. They fled the scene.”

 I have no words left to describe how I feel, let alone know what to do. 

The profile still says: Last online: Yesterday. 

I know that’s impossible. 

Sometimes… it changes. I finally opened his last voice message last night.

 “I’m glad you reached home safe. I saved you this time.” “Maybe next time you’ll save me.”

Each word I’m typing right now with intensity is probably being monitored. In fact, I’m pretty sure they are on their way to get me this instant. Each extra second I spend writing this is another second they acquire to find me. The adrenaline pumping through my veins right now is of no use because, deep down, I know my fate. All my previous attempts have failed, and perhaps before I even get the chance to hit submit, I might no longer exist. I could’ve asked for help in these final moments, but I know most of you won’t trust me, let alone help me. I write this as a warning, a caution to all of you out there and the second anomaly.

For purposes that should remain confidential, I will be naming myself Jezebel, and like everyone else on this planet, my life is quite ordinary. Mundane even. At least that’s what I like to believe. The walls of my house hung portraits of my small family of three. Mom, Dad, and me. They called me their “little angel,” and when I turned about 4, they switched. Mom started to refer to me as their “little angel with big wings” after I bombarded her with countless questions and observations that disturbed adults. Yep, I had been a curious menace since a young age, but I couldn’t help myself. It’s like I possessed the inability to accept unanswered questions, and if they weren’t solvable by the rest of the population, I ought to solve them myself, or at least I tried to. Due to this obsession engraved in my brain, I absorbed each and every book in the local library by the age of 14, but my thirst only continued to grow.

Looking back, I wonder if my curiosity was always a part of me or if it was the first sign that something had gone wrong. Either way, soon I was about to uncover the truth, which was about to kill me rather than calm my hunger.

I wish I had been ready for it.

Regardless of the books that surrounded me, I still surfed the internet to gain knowledge beyond my geographical limitations. If there was something that had remained undiscovered, I was bound to find it. Although, unfortunately, the internet only gave me surface-level data that had either been altered or reused, which was getting frustrating every time I thought I finally got to the bottom of something. So I resorted to diving deeper, and soon found myself in the dark web.

By the time I reached 18, I was operating the dark web on a daily basis. It was like all those social media apps all of you use, but way more amusing. At first, every hidden forum and archive I stumbled upon left me speechless. Human cruelty, red rooms, torture programs, and even classified information about government experiments. Each discovery shook me to the core. I’d promise myself I’d never visit it again, but then I’d find myself scrolling for hours. It was like a high that I wasn’t willing to give up on. Quickly, horror became routine, and the gut-wrenching discoveries became background noise.

Now you may have a question, I know. What did I exactly do with all of the information I had? Did I sell it? Blackmail people, potentially? Or was I going around telling everyone? However, you must know something crucial about me. People often assume knowledge should be shared, but I disagree. Not every time. Not in my case. I never told anyone about my little habit. To frame it in a bit more blunt way, I simply couldn’t care less. My research was meant for my eyes only. If someone had earned the right to know about it, that someone was only me. It only existed for one purpose alone: to satisfy me, the only capable applicant. So I never mentioned anything to anyone. In fact, I had a pretty normal social life besides the forbidden knowledge I was aware of. Most of the time, though, I’d pretend not to know things on purpose to remain unsuspected. People often assumed I was slow, a bit dumb perhaps. My parents knew I had a gift since my childhood but assumed it faded away with age. And that was beyond perfect. Just how I wanted.

So that was it. I had been living quite a peaceful life with my small family and a set of friends who genuinely adored me and saw me as someone who had to be protected from the world. They believed I was innocent, and I let them. My 19th birthday was quite close, and all of them planned a surprise birthday bash for me. I, of course, knew two weeks prior about their little “surprise.” I mean, come on, it was painfully obvious, embarrassing even. The forgotten receipt, the hushed convos, I thought you guys could do better.

Sometimes it fascinated me how much everyone underestimated me, but at the same time, I found it entertaining. It sort of gave me a kick to watch all of them answer a question with the confidence of a professor, only for it to be completely wrong. If anyone closely noticed me, I would go out of my character just for a split second and smirk at those fools, but instantly revert back. Nobody had ever noticed that.

Until now.

A day prior to my birthday, I was home alone while everyone had been out preparing their “surprise” for me. The isolation gave me a certain kind of peace because I could finally let my guard down and have my type of fun without alarming anyone else. I, as expected, wandered through forgotten dark web forums and drifted between different onion links, hoping I’d find something that would pique my interest. Maybe I had begged the universe for something different. Turns out it was listening, and it delivered exactly that… Between you guys and me.

After endless scrolling, I stumbled upon a peculiar hyperlink. Finally. But this was unusual, extremely unusual. For starters, unlike every other link scattered across the page, this one was highlighted in a dark red color in contrast to the white background. Almost maroon, the closest resemblance was human blood. The contrast seemed to demand attention. Strangely, it felt familiar, although I had never seen it before. Each instinct in my body acted in contrast. More than that, it made me feel nauseous, as if it was hiding something that would shake me.

Impossible.

No knowledge could break me.

I was convinced I was unbreakable, undefeated, and that certainty made me click it.

ACCESS DENIED.

For a second, all I did was stare back at the words facing me. I was beyond taken aback, not because it was surprising, but because it shouldn’t have been possible. I had spent years bypassing systems created by people way more skilled than whoever built this shit, had decoded databases with layers of heavy encryption before I was old enough to drive, and this link had the audacity to deny me access?

A small smile crept onto my face.

Something finally worth my time.

Minutes blurred into hours, but I refused to call it a day. I was consumed by this intriguing little challenge with anyone who was pathetic enough to think they were capable of stopping me. An hour became two. Then three. At some point, I stopped caring what was behind the link. I only cared that it had managed to deny me.

For these few hours, everything was irrelevant: the calls, the clock hitting 12 AM, fuck it, even my birthday.

“Fuck.” I groaned. I was getting restless. This had never taken so long. My bloodshot eyes were aching, and my fingers hovered over the keyboard. I tried each and every technique I knew, plenty of loopholes I had mastered throughout my years of experience, but literally nothing worked.

Nothing.

I hate to admit this more than anything, but I was feeling rare emotions I despised from the bottom of my heart: vulnerability and frustration. That was it. This was my last straw. I only had one option. Not my smartest choice, but one I knew deep down wouldn’t let me down.

I frantically examined my room with an urgency that had never occurred to me before. I dialed up the only number I knew could help.

I called Lucifer.

I won’t go into details about Lucifer, but in short, he was the only person in the world I knew I did not need to protect myself from. Lucifer was the only person I’d met who loved answers more than I did. We had met on the dark web. He was a few years older, and just like a mentor, he had guided me into the world of—

“Oh, the queen called me herself? Must be my lucky day. I’ve missed you, Jezebel.”

“I’ve missed you too, Lucifer. I need your help.” I mumbled with desperation I was disgusted to possess.

“The know-it-all Jezebel needs my help? Impossible. This must be something serious then. Is everything alright? Jezebel, you didn’t click the red link?”

“Did you?” I could hear the slight fear in his voice.

“YOU KNOW ABOUT IT?? Have you managed to open it? Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“…..”

“You there? Answer me, Lucifer.” I shrieked.

“Listen to me extremely carefully, Jezebel. Do not crack that link. Just do not. Give up. Some things are not worth it, Jez.”

“This is absurd.” My jaw dropped. I did not just hear THE LUCIFER say those words out loud. Out of all people, he was telling me not to chase answers. I was more determined than ever now. There was no way in hell I was going to let this go.

“Jezebel, listen. I know you loathe these words, but please leave it. Amongst the top dark web users, this link is the most talked about, and whoever has gained access to it has not seen the light after that day. Disappeared from memories and this world. Absolutely wiped out. Rumour has it, the link chooses its victims. Please don’t do it, Jezebel.”

As if someone had stabbed a knife into me, I felt betrayed. How could he tell me to give up? Lucifer disappointed me beyond my expectations but made me second-guess my decision, and for a millisecond, I wanted to agree with what he was saying. But as if my irrational part slapped me, I got back to the page again.

I tried refreshing the page once again.

ACCESS GRANTED.

“Jezebel, are you there?”

The phone disconnected before I could reply.

My laptop screen went blank. A white color painted my screen with almost blinding brightness. For a few seconds, I wondered if the link had crashed.

The black text slowly faded in, allowing me to finally read what my eyes were impatiently waiting for.

Two words appeared.

FILE: PROJECT HUMANITY

FILE: ANOMALY

For the first time, I was perplexed at what I was seeing. I couldn’t help myself and let out a chuckle because, in a very long time, the know-it-all Jezebel didn’t know what she was about to uncover.

Naturally, I clicked on the first file, “PROJECT HUMANITY,” and the folder expanded into what looked like an endless archive.

Names.

Millions. No, billions. Maybe trillions.

Every person to have ever existed across humankind.

Celebrities, politicians, musicians, you name it. The file consisted of their documents. What I did not expect were names of people who had been dead for centuries.

I scrolled hysterically, but the documents weren’t coming to an end.

What was this?

I decided to open up a random person’s document to get a glimpse of what I had stumbled upon.

Emily C. was her name, and this is what her document stated.

⸻

PROJECT HUMANITY

SUBJECT: EMILY C.

STATUS: ACTIVE

DATE OF BIRTH: APRIL 22, 1998

LOCATION: PORTLAND, OREGON

LIFE STATUS: CONTINUOUS

⸻

I scrolled.

Her childhood.

Her grades.

Her medical history.

Her favorite foods.

Her hobbies.

Everything.

Every painfully ordinary detail of a woman I had never met.

⸻

AGE 5:

SUBJECT WILL DEVELOP AN INTEREST IN PIANO.

INTERVENTION REQUIRED:

ALLOW GRANDMOTHER TO GIFT SUBJECT A USED PIANO.

⸻

AGE 6:

EVENT:

Subject develops fear of thunderstorms.

INTERVENTION:

Increase frequency of storms in local area.

PURPOSE:

Strengthen attachment toward grandmother.

RESULT:

Successful.

⸻

AGE 8:

EVENT:

Subject develops friendship with Subject H-39201844.

PROJECTED FUTURE IMPACT:

Moderate.

INTERVENTION:

None.

NOTE:

Friendship contributes positively to emotional development.

⸻

AGE 16:

SUBJECT EXPECTED TO ABANDON EDUCATION DUE TO FAMILY PRESSURE.

CORRECTION:

INTRODUCE TEACHER SUBJECT-4891.

EXPECTED OUTCOME:

Academic path restored.

⸻

AGE 21:

EVENT:

Subject scheduled to miss university examination.

CAUSE:

Transportation delay.

PROJECTED CONSEQUENCE:

Loss of scholarship.

INTERVENTION:

Vehicle malfunction created.

DURATION:

14 minutes.

RESULT:

Subject arrives on time.

⸻

AGE 27:

SUBJECT WILL MEET FUTURE SPOUSE.

LOCATION:

GREEN LEAF CAFE.

TIME:

10:43 AM.

INTERVENTION:

Remove power from subject’s apartment.

EXPECTED BEHAVIOR:

Subject visits cafe while waiting for repairs.

⸻

UPCOMING EVENTS:

AGE 29:

Subject will discover minor financial error.

INTERVENTION:

Correction pending.

⸻

I was at a loss for words.

We think we are owners of our lives and are provided with free will. But how many of us actually live without intervention?

According to this file, none.

Emily C. must have believed in coincidences and fate, but somewhere hidden beneath the internet, someone had written her entire existence before she even lived it.

I shook my head.

This couldn’t be real.

This had to be made up.

I moved my cursor to the search bar and typed in a famous celebrity and clicked on their document.

It was almost in an identical format.

Each detail.

Each intervention, altered according to their life.

⸻

PUBLIC CONTROVERSY:

Scheduled.

YEAR:

PUBLIC RESPONSE:

Anger.

REPUTATION RECOVERY:

Approved.

⸻

Damn.

Even scandals are manufactured?

Of course.

⸻

HISTORICAL FIGURE SEARCH:

ASSASSINATION:

Probability:

91%

Intervention:

None.

Reason:

Necessary timeline correction.

⸻

Then, with trembling hands, I hesitantly typed in my full name.

Jezebel B.

Loading.

Loading.

Loading.

ERROR.

SUBJECT DOES NOT EXIST.

⸻

I almost smirked.

What does it mean I do not exist?

This was getting absurd.

Wait.

What does it mean that I do not exist?

Slowly, a sort of panic set in.

Was I dead?

Did I have a different name?

I searched for my mom and dad. Their file existed. I didn’t manage to go through them in detail, but I got my confirmation they were available on the database. So were my friends. Why wasn’t I there? This was odd?

No.

This was impossible.

I refreshed the page again, almost aggressively, as if the error was just a minor inconvenience. A simple glitch maybe. Right? I tried different variations. My full name. My birthday. My location. Every piece of information I knew about myself.

The same message appeared every single time.

SUBJECT DOES NOT EXIST.

I had been so fascinated by PROJECT HUMANITY that I completely ignored the second one.

ANOMALY.

Right, I had completely ignored that folder.

My fingers froze above the mouse.

Slowly, with shaky breath, I opened the folder.

Inside were only two files.

No names.

No descriptions.

Just numbers.

ANOMALY 001

ANOMALY 002

My eyes narrowed. Two? Only two? Out of billions of people that have existed? I was dumbfounded. Why on earth did these two people exist and how had they not been found yet?

I clicked the first file.

STATUS: UNKNOWN

Nothing more than that.

So great, they didn’t even know their first anomaly. Interesting.

Then I clicked the second, and the file opened instantly.

And my entire body went cold.

Because at the top of the page was my name.

JEZEBEL.

I stopped breathing.

No. No, this wasn’t possible.

I started scrolling. At first, it looked like a normal profile, except it wasn’t. It wasn’t a file about my life. It was my life, every single detail documented like they had been studying me. I had barely any interventions. This one read like a memoir. Things I remembered. Things I didn’t. Everything.

SUBJECT:

JEZEBEL

STATUS:

ACTIVE

CLASSIFICATION:

ANOMALY

ORIGIN:

UNKNOWN

My parents were never supposed to meet. The document stated I was a mistake. I was never supposed to be born. Yet I existed, out of their database. Out of their control. And that was dangerous. That was a threat to them, because when they can’t control, each small decision I make can have tremendous consequences. They were studying me relentlessly. They weren’t going to risk it.

Think of it as a butterfly effect. But instead, they create small events to change the trajectories of people’s lives. They couldn’t do that with me. I was a threat.

Age four.

The questions I asked my parents.

The strange observations that made adults uncomfortable.

The endless curiosity.

Everything.

They had recorded it all.

AGE 15:

SUBJECT DISCOVERS RESTRICTED DATABASE.

CAUSE:

Persistent curiosity pattern.

MEMORY ALTERATION INITIATED.

RESULT:

SUCCESSFUL.

No. That wasn’t possible.

I remembered being curious and I remembered searching.

But I didn’t remember this.

I kept scrolling.

AGE 17:

SUBJECT DISCOVERS RESTRICTED DATABASE AGAIN.

MEMORY ALTERATION INITIATED.

RESULT:

PARTIAL SUCCESS.

SUBJECT CONTINUES SEARCH BEHAVIOR.

My stomach twisted into knots. I had done this before? I had found this before? Then why didn’t I remember?

I continued, but my heartbeat grew louder with every line.

AGE 19:

SUBJECT DISCOVERS PROJECT HUMANITY.

EXPECTED DISCOVERY DATE:

CONFIRMED.

MEMORY ALTERATION:

FAILED.

FINAL PROTOCOL

Previous methods unsuccessful.

Memory suppression ineffective.

Subject curiosity cannot be eliminated.

Solution:

Permanent removal.

Subject existence will be erased.

To be honest, I am out of time. I can’t run. It’s useless. They will get me. Soon. And I will be gone. Erased from existence. Wiped from everyone’s memories. This post I spent my last breaths writing will disappear forever just like me. I know my time is up. The second anomaly, you are still out there. Alive, I believe.

If anyone finds this after I’m gone, remember this: the file was never hidden because they feared someone discovering it. It was hidden because they knew someone eventually would.

I don’t know who the second anomaly is, but please understand one thing: they weren’t searching for me because I found the file. They were searching for me because I was never supposed to find it.

do not search for answers. They already know you’re looking.

I have lost all ho-

Knock. Knock.

I just heard my mother’s voice from the other side say:

“Jezebel, why did you warn the second one?”

I found a classified government file, I was never supposed to exist

Each word I’m typing right now with intensity is probably being monitored. In fact, I’m pretty sure they are on their way to get me this instant. Each extra second I spend writing this is another second they acquire to find me. The adrenaline pumping through my veins right now is of no use because, deep down, I know my fate. All my previous attempts have failed, and perhaps before I even get the chance to hit submit, I might no longer exist. I could’ve asked for help in these final moments, but I know most of you won’t trust me, let alone help me. I write this as a warning, a caution to all of you out there and the second anomaly.

For purposes that should remain confidential, I will be naming myself Jezebel, and like everyone else on this planet, my life is quite ordinary. Mundane even. At least that’s what I like to believe. The walls of my house hung portraits of my small family of three. Mom, Dad, and me. They called me their “little angel,” and when I turned about 4, they switched. Mom started to refer to me as their “little angel with big wings” after I bombarded her with countless questions and observations that disturbed adults. Yep, I had been a curious menace since a young age, but I couldn’t help myself. It’s like I possessed the inability to accept unanswered questions, and if they weren’t solvable by the rest of the population, I ought to solve them myself, or at least I tried to. Due to this obsession engraved in my brain, I absorbed each and every book in the local library by the age of 14, but my thirst only continued to grow.

Looking back, I wonder if my curiosity was always a part of me or if it was the first sign that something had gone wrong. Either way, soon I was about to uncover the truth, which was about to kill me rather than calm my hunger.

I wish I had been ready for it.

Regardless of the books that surrounded me, I still surfed the internet to gain knowledge beyond my geographical limitations. If there was something that had remained undiscovered, I was bound to find it. Although, unfortunately, the internet only gave me surface-level data that had either been altered or reused, which was getting frustrating every time I thought I finally got to the bottom of something. So I resorted to diving deeper, and soon found myself in the dark web.

By the time I reached 18, I was operating the dark web on a daily basis. It was like all those social media apps all of you use, but way more amusing. At first, every hidden forum and archive I stumbled upon left me speechless. Human cruelty, red rooms, torture programs, and even classified information about government experiments. Each discovery shook me to the core. I’d promise myself I’d never visit it again, but then I’d find myself scrolling for hours. It was like a high that I wasn’t willing to give up on. Quickly, horror became routine, and the gut-wrenching discoveries became background noise.

Now you may have a question, I know. What did I exactly do with all of the information I had? Did I sell it? Blackmail people, potentially? Or was I going around telling everyone? However, you must know something crucial about me. People often assume knowledge should be shared, but I disagree. Not every time. Not in my case. I never told anyone about my little habit. To frame it in a bit more blunt way, I simply couldn’t care less. My research was meant for my eyes only. If someone had earned the right to know about it, that someone was only me. It only existed for one purpose alone: to satisfy me, the only capable applicant. So I never mentioned anything to anyone. In fact, I had a pretty normal social life besides the forbidden knowledge I was aware of. Most of the time, though, I’d pretend not to know things on purpose to remain unsuspected. People often assumed I was slow, a bit dumb perhaps. My parents knew I had a gift since my childhood but assumed it faded away with age. And that was beyond perfect. Just how I wanted.

So that was it. I had been living quite a peaceful life with my small family and a set of friends who genuinely adored me and saw me as someone who had to be protected from the world. They believed I was innocent, and I let them. My 19th birthday was quite close, and all of them planned a surprise birthday bash for me. I, of course, knew two weeks prior about their little “surprise.” I mean, come on, it was painfully obvious, embarrassing even. The forgotten receipt, the hushed convos, I thought you guys could do better.

Sometimes it fascinated me how much everyone underestimated me, but at the same time, I found it entertaining. It sort of gave me a kick to watch all of them answer a question with the confidence of a professor, only for it to be completely wrong. If anyone closely noticed me, I would go out of my character just for a split second and smirk at those fools, but instantly revert back. Nobody had ever noticed that.

Until now.

A day prior to my birthday, I was home alone while everyone had been out preparing their “surprise” for me. The isolation gave me a certain kind of peace because I could finally let my guard down and have my type of fun without alarming anyone else. I, as expected, wandered through forgotten dark web forums and drifted between different onion links, hoping I’d find something that would pique my interest. Maybe I had begged the universe for something different. Turns out it was listening, and it delivered exactly that… Between you guys and me.

After endless scrolling, I stumbled upon a peculiar hyperlink. Finally. But this was unusual, extremely unusual. For starters, unlike every other link scattered across the page, this one was highlighted in a dark red color in contrast to the white background. Almost maroon, the closest resemblance was human blood. The contrast seemed to demand attention. Strangely, it felt familiar, although I had never seen it before. Each instinct in my body acted in contrast. More than that, it made me feel nauseous, as if it was hiding something that would shake me.

Impossible.

No knowledge could break me.

I was convinced I was unbreakable, undefeated, and that certainty made me click it.

ACCESS DENIED.

For a second, all I did was stare back at the words facing me. I was beyond taken aback, not because it was surprising, but because it shouldn’t have been possible. I had spent years bypassing systems created by people way more skilled than whoever built this shit, had decoded databases with layers of heavy encryption before I was old enough to drive, and this link had the audacity to deny me access?

A small smile crept onto my face.

Something finally worth my time.

Minutes blurred into hours, but I refused to call it a day. I was consumed by this intriguing little challenge with anyone who was pathetic enough to think they were capable of stopping me. An hour became two. Then three. At some point, I stopped caring what was behind the link. I only cared that it had managed to deny me.

For these few hours, everything was irrelevant: the calls, the clock hitting 12 AM, fuck it, even my birthday.

“Fuck.” I groaned. I was getting restless. This had never taken so long. My bloodshot eyes were aching, and my fingers hovered over the keyboard. I tried each and every technique I knew, plenty of loopholes I had mastered throughout my years of experience, but literally nothing worked.

Nothing.

I hate to admit this more than anything, but I was feeling rare emotions I despised from the bottom of my heart: vulnerability and frustration. That was it. This was my last straw. I only had one option. Not my smartest choice, but one I knew deep down wouldn’t let me down.

I frantically examined my room with an urgency that had never occurred to me before. I dialed up the only number I knew could help.

I called Lucifer.

I won’t go into details about Lucifer, but in short, he was the only person in the world I knew I did not need to protect myself from. Lucifer was the only person I’d met who loved answers more than I did. We had met on the dark web. He was a few years older, and just like a mentor, he had guided me into the world of—

“Oh, the queen called me herself? Must be my lucky day. I’ve missed you, Jezebel.”

“I’ve missed you too, Lucifer. I need your help.” I mumbled with desperation I was disgusted to possess.

“The know-it-all Jezebel needs my help? Impossible. This must be something serious then. Is everything alright? Jezebel, you didn’t click the red link?”

“Did you?” I could hear the slight fear in his voice.

“YOU KNOW ABOUT IT?? Have you managed to open it? Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“…..”

“You there? Answer me, Lucifer.” I shrieked.

“Listen to me extremely carefully, Jezebel. Do not crack that link. Just do not. Give up. Some things are not worth it, Jez.”

“This is absurd.” My jaw dropped. I did not just hear THE LUCIFER say those words out loud. Out of all people, he was telling me not to chase answers. I was more determined than ever now. There was no way in hell I was going to let this go.

“Jezebel, listen. I know you loathe these words, but please leave it. Amongst the top dark web users, this link is the most talked about, and whoever has gained access to it has not seen the light after that day. Disappeared from memories and this world. Absolutely wiped out. Rumour has it, the link chooses its victims. Please don’t do it, Jezebel.”

As if someone had stabbed a knife into me, I felt betrayed. How could he tell me to give up? Lucifer disappointed me beyond my expectations but made me second-guess my decision, and for a millisecond, I wanted to agree with what he was saying. But as if my irrational part slapped me, I got back to the page again.

I tried refreshing the page once again.

ACCESS GRANTED.

“Jezebel, are you there?”

The phone disconnected before I could reply.

My laptop screen went blank. A white color painted my screen with almost blinding brightness. For a few seconds, I wondered if the link had crashed.

The black text slowly faded in, allowing me to finally read what my eyes were impatiently waiting for.

Two words appeared.

FILE: PROJECT HUMANITY

FILE: ANOMALY

For the first time, I was perplexed at what I was seeing. I couldn’t help myself and let out a chuckle because, in a very long time, the know-it-all Jezebel didn’t know what she was about to uncover.

Naturally, I clicked on the first file, “PROJECT HUMANITY,” and the folder expanded into what looked like an endless archive.

Names.

Millions. No, billions. Maybe trillions.

Every person to have ever existed across humankind.

Celebrities, politicians, musicians, you name it. The file consisted of their documents. What I did not expect were names of people who had been dead for centuries.

I scrolled hysterically, but the documents weren’t coming to an end.

What was this?

I decided to open up a random person’s document to get a glimpse of what I had stumbled upon.

Emily C. was her name, and this is what her document stated.

⸻

PROJECT HUMANITY

SUBJECT: EMILY C.

STATUS: ACTIVE

DATE OF BIRTH: APRIL 22, 1998

LOCATION: PORTLAND, OREGON

LIFE STATUS: CONTINUOUS

⸻

I scrolled.

Her childhood.

Her grades.

Her medical history.

Her favorite foods.

Her hobbies.

Everything.

Every painfully ordinary detail of a woman I had never met.

⸻

AGE 5:

SUBJECT WILL DEVELOP AN INTEREST IN PIANO.

INTERVENTION REQUIRED:

ALLOW GRANDMOTHER TO GIFT SUBJECT A USED PIANO.

⸻

AGE 6:

EVENT:

Subject develops fear of thunderstorms.

INTERVENTION:

Increase frequency of storms in local area.

PURPOSE:

Strengthen attachment toward grandmother.

RESULT:

Successful.

⸻

AGE 8:

EVENT:

Subject develops friendship with Subject H-39201844.

PROJECTED FUTURE IMPACT:

Moderate.

INTERVENTION:

None.

NOTE:

Friendship contributes positively to emotional development.

⸻

AGE 16:

SUBJECT EXPECTED TO ABANDON EDUCATION DUE TO FAMILY PRESSURE.

CORRECTION:

INTRODUCE TEACHER SUBJECT-4891.

EXPECTED OUTCOME:

Academic path restored.

⸻

AGE 21:

EVENT:

Subject scheduled to miss university examination.

CAUSE:

Transportation delay.

PROJECTED CONSEQUENCE:

Loss of scholarship.

INTERVENTION:

Vehicle malfunction created.

DURATION:

14 minutes.

RESULT:

Subject arrives on time.

⸻

AGE 27:

SUBJECT WILL MEET FUTURE SPOUSE.

LOCATION:

GREEN LEAF CAFE.

TIME:

10:43 AM.

INTERVENTION:

Remove power from subject’s apartment.

EXPECTED BEHAVIOR:

Subject visits cafe while waiting for repairs.

⸻

UPCOMING EVENTS:

AGE 29:

Subject will discover minor financial error.

INTERVENTION:

Correction pending.

⸻

I was at a loss for words.

We think we are owners of our lives and are provided with free will. But how many of us actually live without intervention?

According to this file, none.

Emily C. must have believed in coincidences and fate, but somewhere hidden beneath the internet, someone had written her entire existence before she even lived it.

I shook my head.

This couldn’t be real.

This had to be made up.

I moved my cursor to the search bar and typed in a famous celebrity and clicked on their document.

It was almost in an identical format.

Each detail.

Each intervention, altered according to their life.

⸻

PUBLIC CONTROVERSY:

Scheduled.

YEAR:

PUBLIC RESPONSE:

Anger.

REPUTATION RECOVERY:

Approved.

⸻

Damn.

Even scandals are manufactured?

Of course.

⸻

HISTORICAL FIGURE SEARCH:

ASSASSINATION:

Probability:

91%

Intervention:

None.

Reason:

Necessary timeline correction.

⸻

Then, with trembling hands, I hesitantly typed in my full name.

Jezebel B.

Loading.

Loading.

Loading.

ERROR.

SUBJECT DOES NOT EXIST.

⸻

I almost smirked.

What does it mean I do not exist?

This was getting absurd.

Wait.

What does it mean that I do not exist?

Slowly, a sort of panic set in.

Was I dead?

Did I have a different name?

I searched for my mom and dad. Their file existed. I didn’t manage to go through them in detail, but I got my confirmation they were available on the database. So were my friends. Why wasn’t I there? This was odd?

No.

This was impossible.

I refreshed the page again, almost aggressively, as if the error was just a minor inconvenience. A simple glitch maybe. Right? I tried different variations. My full name. My birthday. My location. Every piece of information I knew about myself.

The same message appeared every single time.

SUBJECT DOES NOT EXIST.

I had been so fascinated by PROJECT HUMANITY that I completely ignored the second one.

ANOMALY.

Right, I had completely ignored that folder.

My fingers froze above the mouse.

Slowly, with shaky breath, I opened the folder.

Inside were only two files.

No names.

No descriptions.

Just numbers.

ANOMALY 001

ANOMALY 002

My eyes narrowed. Two? Only two? Out of billions of people that have existed? I was dumbfounded. Why on earth did these two people exist and how had they not been found yet?

I clicked the first file.

STATUS: UNKNOWN

Nothing more than that.

So great, they didn’t even know their first anomaly. Interesting.

Then I clicked the second, and the file opened instantly.

And my entire body went cold.

Because at the top of the page was my name.

JEZEBEL.

I stopped breathing.

No. No, this wasn’t possible.

I started scrolling. At first, it looked like a normal profile, except it wasn’t. It wasn’t a file about my life. It was my life, every single detail documented like they had been studying me. I had barely any interventions. This one read like a memoir. Things I remembered. Things I didn’t. Everything.

SUBJECT:

JEZEBEL

STATUS:

ACTIVE

CLASSIFICATION:

ANOMALY

ORIGIN:

UNKNOWN

My parents were never supposed to meet. The document stated I was a mistake. I was never supposed to be born. Yet I existed, out of their database. Out of their control. And that was dangerous. That was a threat to them, because when they can’t control, each small decision I make can have tremendous consequences. They were studying me relentlessly. They weren’t going to risk it.

Think of it as a butterfly effect. But instead, they create small events to change the trajectories of people’s lives. They couldn’t do that with me. I was a threat.

Age four.

The questions I asked my parents.

The strange observations that made adults uncomfortable.

The endless curiosity.

Everything.

They had recorded it all.

AGE 15:

SUBJECT DISCOVERS RESTRICTED DATABASE.

CAUSE:

Persistent curiosity pattern.

MEMORY ALTERATION INITIATED.

RESULT:

SUCCESSFUL.

No. That wasn’t possible.

I remembered being curious and I remembered searching.

But I didn’t remember this.

I kept scrolling.

AGE 17:

SUBJECT DISCOVERS RESTRICTED DATABASE AGAIN.

MEMORY ALTERATION INITIATED.

RESULT:

PARTIAL SUCCESS.

SUBJECT CONTINUES SEARCH BEHAVIOR.

My stomach twisted into knots. I had done this before? I had found this before? Then why didn’t I remember?

I continued, but my heartbeat grew louder with every line.

AGE 19:

SUBJECT DISCOVERS PROJECT HUMANITY.

EXPECTED DISCOVERY DATE:

CONFIRMED.

MEMORY ALTERATION:

FAILED.

FINAL PROTOCOL

Previous methods unsuccessful.

Memory suppression ineffective.

Subject curiosity cannot be eliminated.

Solution:

Permanent removal.

Subject existence will be erased.

To be honest, I am out of time. I can’t run. It’s useless. They will get me. Soon. And I will be gone. Erased from existence. Wiped from everyone’s memories. This post I spent my last breaths writing will disappear forever just like me. I know my time is up. The second anomaly, you are still out there. Alive, I believe.

If anyone finds this after I’m gone, remember this: the file was never hidden because they feared someone discovering it. It was hidden because they knew someone eventually would.

I don’t know who the second anomaly is, but please understand one thing: they weren’t searching for me because I found the file. They were searching for me because I was never supposed to find it.

do not search for answers. They already know you’re looking.

I have lost all ho-

Knock. Knock.

I just heard my mother’s voice from the other side say:

“Jezebel, why did you warn the second one?”

Dear 18,

You started off crazy and wild, and not in the good way.

I spent my eighteenth birthday at one of the most beautiful resorts with my family. The place was breathtaking. The ocean was endless, the sunsets looked unreal, and for a few moments I genuinely forgot everything that had been happening back home. Yet somehow, even paradise couldn't protect me from reality.

My phone wouldn't stop buzzing.

Two of my closest high school friends had somehow managed to make my birthday about themselves. Everyone kept updating me on the drama they were creating, and I was exhausted. All I wanted was one peaceful day to celebrate becoming an adult, yet the people I loved most were busy turning it into another problem for me to solve.

Thankfully, the resort was beautiful enough that I still managed to enjoy it.

Looking back, I think that was the last truly carefree moment I had before everything started changing.

Graduating from school didn't feel the way I thought it would.

People always tell you graduation is exciting, but no one prepares you for the grief that comes with it. One day you're surrounded by familiar faces, routines, classrooms, and teachers you've known for years. The next day, it's all over. Everyone begins disappearing into different countries, different universities, and different lives.

I wasn't just grieving a friendship.

I was grieving an entire chapter of my life.

I felt completely lost.

Instead of knowing who I wanted to become, I was suddenly questioning who I even was.

So I threw myself into work.

I started learning about stocks and interned at my dad's company, hoping that if I stayed busy enough, I wouldn't have to think about everything I had lost.

But my heart refused to let me forget.

Quite literally.

During that summer, my heartbeat became irregular. At first I convinced myself it would pass, but instead it grew worse. Every night I cried, terrified to fall asleep because I was convinced I wouldn't wake up. My fear of death consumed me. I didn't want to die.

I was only eighteen.

I still had so much left to do.

I tried spending time with friends, hoping it would make me feel better, but somehow every outing left me feeling emptier than before. Eventually, I stopped going out altogether.

The friendship breakup became everyone's conversation except mine. Everyone acted as if they were grieving, but I was the one carrying the actual pain.

One evening I stood by the lake in a dress, full makeup still on, listening to the most heartbreaking Taylor Swift songs I knew. I was convinced Cardigan and You're On Your Own, Kid had been written specifically for that moment. I remember hugging myself, clutching my chest, trying to calm a heart that refused to feel normal. Even now, writing about it brings tears to my eyes.

As if that wasn't enough, a few days later my mom casually told me she loved my best friend more than me.

I don't think she'll ever know how much that sentence hurt.

Yet somehow, in the middle of all that darkness, something good happened.

I received the best academic result I had ever achieved.

Ninety-eight out of one hundred.

For the first time in months, I hadn't disappointed myself.

It became the summer where everyone disappointed me except... me.

Eventually I reached out to the only person I knew would still listen.

Childhood Bestie.

After almost a year apart, he heard me out without judgment. He reminded me that things would eventually get better. When I felt like everyone had left, he stayed long enough to let me breathe again.

Then, because apparently life hadn't humbled me enough already, I decided to confess to CEO.

The boy I had liked for six years.

At that point I was already so broken that I thought rejection couldn't possibly hurt any more than everything else already had.

So I told him.

His response wasn't rejection.

It wasn't acceptance either.

It was simply,

"We should meet when I'm back."

At the time I didn't know what to make of it. I waited, hoping we'd finally meet.

We never did.

So I quietly accepted it as my answer.

My aunt came to visit after everything had happened, and for a little while she became an escape from everything that had been consuming me. But my heart still wasn't right. It kept beating in ways that terrified me, and I had run out of explanations. I had convinced myself it would eventually stop, but it never did.

Eventually I told my mom and dad.

At first, they thought I was exaggerating.

Then they saw the doctor's face.

If I could erase one moment from being eighteen, it would be that one.

The uncertainty was unbearable.

"It could be a heart attack."

"It could be a heart condition."

Even the doctors didn't know what was happening.

That was the scariest part.

I still cry writing about that night.

When death comes that close to you, nothing matters anymore.

Not fame.

Not popularity.

Not beauty.

Not the people you like.

Not the people who like you.

Everything you once believed was important suddenly becomes so unbelievably small.

When death stands close enough for you to feel its breath, your mind goes blank.

That is exactly what happened to me.

I watched my parents cry in front of a hospital for the first time in my life, begging God to spare me. I watched fear consume the strongest people I knew. I watched the confidence leave the doctor's face. I watched reports get passed from one specialist to another, ECGs travel between hospitals and cities, and surgery become a word that was suddenly part of my life.

I hated you, 18.

I hated the way you made me feel.

I hated the look on my parents' faces when they were told it might be something serious.

I hated wearing an ECG for days, carrying it around like a ticking countdown I couldn't escape.

I hated hugging my mom and dad so tightly because, for the first time in my life, I wasn't sure how many more chances I'd get to do it.

Nothing prepares you for seeing your parents look at you as if they might lose you.

Nothing.

Everything else became meaningless.

The friendships.

The heartbreaks.

The crushes.

The drama.

Compared to my life itself, compared to the possibility of death, they all disappeared into the background.

For the first time, I understood how fragile everything really was.
I truly hope those days never return because nobody deserves to experience them.

They broke me in ways I still struggle to explain.

Even now, I rarely talk about them because they require a level of vulnerability I don't easily allow myself. I never even told CEO or Childhood Bestie. This is one of those parts of my life that I've always wanted to keep hidden. Only my parents and my best friend know what really happened.

The worst part?

We received my diagnosis on my aunt's birthday.

While my world was falling apart, she was upset that we weren't celebrating her instead.

I didn't want to die.

I was only eighteen.

There was still so much left that I wanted to experience. Every single night I begged God not to take me away. I wasn't ready.

After countless hospital visits, endless tests, multiple specialists, and even being advised to consider surgery, we finally received the correct diagnosis. I was prescribed medication that helped manage everything, but healing wasn't immediate. There were still sleepless nights. Still nights where I lay awake listening to my own heartbeat, terrified of what it might do next.

Around that same time, university applications were also happening. Thankfully, I received my acceptance.

Yet by the time university was about to begin, I hated life.

I hated everyone.

I hated everything.

Looking back, I don't blame myself.

I had lost friendships I thought would last forever.

I heard words from my own mother that broke my heart.

I had been diagnosed with a heart condition.

I had quietly let go of someone I had loved for six years.

It was a terrible summer.

The last thing I wanted was to start university.

I seriously considered taking a gap year.

My parents, however, insisted that I needed a fresh environment. They believed distraction would help me heal, even if I couldn't believe it myself.

So I went.

On induction day everyone smiled at me.

Everyone was kind.

Everyone seemed excited.

And I...

I barely smiled back.

I walked around with a face full of exhaustion and resentment. Looking back, I probably came across as rude, but after everything that had happened that summer, I simply didn't have the emotional strength to pretend I was okay.

Leaving me at university wasn't easy for my parents either. They had only recently learned about my heart condition, and now they were expected to leave me in another city. Despite every fear they carried, they still encouraged me to stay for two days on my own as a trial.

I met my roommates.

Then, when everyone was gone, I sat on the dorm room floor and cried.

I cried because eighteen had already exhausted me before university had even begun.

I cried because I wondered how much more pain I was expected to endure.

I cried because I was scared.

Terrified, actually.

But eventually I reached a point where I asked myself a simple question.

How long was I going to let this version of myself exist?

There was an entirely new life waiting outside that dorm room.

So I stood up.

I closed my laptop.

I put on some nice clothes.

I did my makeup.

Then I walked out alone to explore the campus.

On the elevator ride down, I met a white guy. We started talking, and he was surprisingly friendly.

Standing there, I realized something.

After everything eighteen had put me through, I didn't want to introduce myself as the same person who had walked into that summer.

So I chose a new name.

From that moment on, I became V.

I wanted to reinvent myself.

I wanted another persona.

An alter ego.

Back then, I convinced myself that this alter ego existed to become a better version of myself. Looking back now, I realize it was simply a shield. A shield protecting me from ever letting people get close enough to hurt me again.

After that summer, I trusted no one.

Not romantically.

Not platonically.

No one.

I refused to let another person get that close to my heart again.

Ironically, now that I had a diagnosed heart condition, I had to protect my heart in more ways than one.

So I became V.

V was fearless.

V didn't care what people thought.

V didn't feel guilt.

V didn't feel shame.

V would do whatever she wanted because she only had one life, and after standing so close to death, I had learned that tomorrow was never guaranteed.

Death had permanently changed the way I looked at life.

It was my very first day on campus.

I wandered around on my own, trying to familiarize myself with the place that would become my home for the next few years. People smiled at me. Some even started conversations. I remember talking to one particularly attractive senior while we stood petting the campus cats together. He offered to show me around and told me that if I ever needed anything on campus, I could always find him.

It felt...

Hopeful.

Like maybe this was the beginning of something entirely new.

Then university truly began.

And just like you had taken everything away from me at the start of the year, 18, you slowly started giving pieces of it back.

Bit by bit.

Trust didn't come easily.

Neither did friendships.

I still kept everyone at arm's length, but I talked to more people than I ever had before. I smiled more. I laughed more. I built a life from scratch.

At a medical check-up, of all places, I met two girls who would eventually become my closest friends. We unknowingly became a trio that would carry me through my entire first year.

Then Halloween happened.

Everything changed.

That party became the beginning of an entirely different version of me.

It was my first university party.

My first time drinking.

My first time getting properly drunk.

My first time stepping into a club.

My first time feeling like I was living inside one of those coming-of-age movies I'd always romanticized.

It was the first time I realized people actually found me attractive.

The first time I realized...

I could pull.

That night awakened something rebellious inside me.

Soon enough came my first situationship.

My first kiss.

A memory I don't think I'll ever forget.

Whenever I think about him, Cigarettes After Sex immediately starts playing in my head. Our relationship felt exactly like a cigarette.

Toxic.

Addictive.

Comforting.

Destructive.

We shared cigarettes underneath the bus stop.

We made out until sunrise.

I refused to let him kiss my lips until our fourth date, so instead we kissed each other's necks.

He played with my hair.

I played with his.

I'd come home at four in the morning, exhausted but somehow smiling.

Those moments belong to eighteen.

At the same time, life never stopped throwing side quests at me.

There was the humiliating episode of severe constipation that somehow became a hospital visit.

There were unexpected family obligations that stopped me from returning to university on time.

There were random Wattpad-worthy encounters with strangers around campus.

There was the elevator senior.

There were adventures I never expected to experience.

Then that situationship quietly came to an end.

Not long after, Childhood Bestie replied to one of my stories.

And suddenly we were back.

Five-hour phone calls.

Talking until sunrise.

Sharing everything.

We had both experienced heartbreak in different ways, and somehow that made us understand each other even more.

Those conversations became one of my favourite memories from eighteen.

By then I was going out almost every day, constantly meeting new people and making new friends.

University Semester One had completely transformed me.

Then Semester Two somehow became even crazier.

You introduced more characters into my story than I ever thought possible.

Suddenly I had multiple friend groups.

Several people I was interested in.

And then...

You brought CEO back.

After six years.

You finally allowed me to live the fantasy I had spent so many years imagining.

Except reality wasn't quite what fantasy had promised.

I got the kiss I had dreamed about.

I got to know the person behind the fantasy.

And somehow, eighteen didn't just give me him.

It gave me everything.

Friends.

Love interests.

Childhood Bestie again.

CEO.

New adventures.

New stories.

A version of myself I had never met before.

You overcompensated for every hardship you had thrown at me during the beginning of the year.

Then...

You reminded me once again that life doesn't stop taking.

You took my grandmother.

I genuinely believed she'd still be around when I got married one day.

Instead, she left much sooner than I had ever imagined.

Once again, you reminded me that death doesn't wait for perfect timing.

And because of that reminder...

I lived.

I made reckless decisions.

I occasionally drank.

Occasionally smoked.

Stayed out until sunrise.

Went on spontaneous walks with friends.

Got a belly piercing my mom would never have approved of.

Snuck out.

Fell in and out of situationships.

Collected memories instead of regrets.

Eighteen gave me freedom.

Independence.

Growth.

Character development.

But above everything else...

You left me with one truth that never left my mind.

Death is inevitable.

Which is exactly why life deserves to be lived as fully as possible.

That is why you should start living more.

And that is exactly what I did.

I lived as much as I possibly could.

I really did, 18.

Even today, I still don't know whether I loved you or hated you.

I still can't decide whether I'll miss you or whether you'll forever remain the year I hated the most.

You gave me so many firsts.

But you also gave me so many endings.

Maybe that's why I both love you and hate you.

This is my love letter to you.

Because by the end of eighteen, I had learned lessons that no other year could have ever taught me.

At seventeen, I was hopelessly delusional.

I lived inside a fantasy where everything eventually worked out, where people stayed, where love conquered everything, and where life somehow always followed the script I had written in my head.

Then you happened.

You humbled me in ways I never imagined possible.

You made me cry myself to sleep.

You broke my heart.

You made living feel unbelievably difficult.

Then, just when I thought there was nothing left of me, you slowly gave me everything I had spent years dreaming about.

You forced me to see reality.

Not because you wanted to hurt me.

Because fantasy alone was never going to help me grow.

You took things away that I thought belonged to me forever.

Yet somehow, you also gave me exactly what I needed.

Looking back now, I realize something.

The things I wanted weren't always the things I needed.

And sometimes the things I desperately needed arrived disguised as heartbreak.

By the end of my first year at university, I couldn't believe eighteen was already over.

Somehow, in just one year, I became someone I barely recognized.

I finally got a job.

I started making videos.

I created stories that felt like pieces of my soul.

I experienced freedom.

I made mistakes.

I grew.

I moved.

I lived.

All because you forced me to stop hiding inside fantasies and begin existing inside reality.

Fantasy is beautiful.

It always will be.

But sometimes...

Fantasy simply isn't enough.

Sometimes reality has lessons fantasy could never teach.

So thank you, 18.

Thank you for terrifying me.

Thank you for breaking me.

Thank you for rebuilding me.

Thank you for every first.

Thank you for every ending.

Today is my last day of being eighteen.

And what a remarkable, heartbreaking, unforgettable ride it has been.

You were the year life felt closest to 2019 again.

The closest I had come to reliving the happiest period of my life.

Yet you were also the year that made me feel more pain than even 2020 or 2021, the years I once believed would always remain the darkest chapters of my life.

That is why, 18...

I still don't know whether I should kiss you...

or kill you.

Dear 18,

You started off crazy and wild, and not in the good way.

I spent my eighteenth birthday at one of the most beautiful resorts with my family. The place was breathtaking. The ocean was endless, the sunsets looked unreal, and for a few moments I genuinely forgot everything that had been happening back home. Yet somehow, even paradise couldn't protect me from reality.

My phone wouldn't stop buzzing.

Two of my closest high school friends had somehow managed to make my birthday about themselves. Everyone kept updating me on the drama they were creating, and I was exhausted. All I wanted was one peaceful day to celebrate becoming an adult, yet the people I loved most were busy turning it into another problem for me to solve.

Thankfully, the resort was beautiful enough that I still managed to enjoy it.

Looking back, I think that was the last truly carefree moment I had before everything started changing.

Graduating from school didn't feel the way I thought it would.

People always tell you graduation is exciting, but no one prepares you for the grief that comes with it. One day you're surrounded by familiar faces, routines, classrooms, and teachers you've known for years. The next day, it's all over. Everyone begins disappearing into different countries, different universities, and different lives.

I wasn't just grieving a friendship.

I was grieving an entire chapter of my life.

I felt completely lost.

Instead of knowing who I wanted to become, I was suddenly questioning who I even was.

So I threw myself into work.

I started learning about stocks and interned at my dad's company, hoping that if I stayed busy enough, I wouldn't have to think about everything I had lost.

But my heart refused to let me forget.

Quite literally.

During that summer, my heartbeat became irregular. At first I convinced myself it would pass, but instead it grew worse. Every night I cried, terrified to fall asleep because I was convinced I wouldn't wake up. My fear of death consumed me. I didn't want to die.

I was only eighteen.

I still had so much left to do.

I tried spending time with friends, hoping it would make me feel better, but somehow every outing left me feeling emptier than before. Eventually, I stopped going out altogether.

The friendship breakup became everyone's conversation except mine. Everyone acted as if they were grieving, but I was the one carrying the actual pain.

One evening I stood by the lake in a dress, full makeup still on, listening to the most heartbreaking Taylor Swift songs I knew. I was convinced Cardigan and You're On Your Own, Kid had been written specifically for that moment. I remember hugging myself, clutching my chest, trying to calm a heart that refused to feel normal. Even now, writing about it brings tears to my eyes.

As if that wasn't enough, a few days later my mom casually told me she loved my best friend more than me.

I don't think she'll ever know how much that sentence hurt.

Yet somehow, in the middle of all that darkness, something good happened.

I received the best academic result I had ever achieved.

Ninety-eight out of one hundred.

For the first time in months, I hadn't disappointed myself.

It became the summer where everyone disappointed me except... me.

Eventually I reached out to the only person I knew would still listen.

Childhood Bestie.

After almost a year apart, he heard me out without judgment. He reminded me that things would eventually get better. When I felt like everyone had left, he stayed long enough to let me breathe again.

Then, because apparently life hadn't humbled me enough already, I decided to confess to CEO.

The boy I had liked for six years.

At that point I was already so broken that I thought rejection couldn't possibly hurt any more than everything else already had.

So I told him.

His response wasn't rejection.

It wasn't acceptance either.

It was simply,

"We should meet when I'm back."

At the time I didn't know what to make of it. I waited, hoping we'd finally meet.

We never did.

So I quietly accepted it as my answer.

My aunt came to visit after everything had happened, and for a little while she became an escape from everything that had been consuming me. But my heart still wasn't right. It kept beating in ways that terrified me, and I had run out of explanations. I had convinced myself it would eventually stop, but it never did.

Eventually I told my mom and dad.

At first, they thought I was exaggerating.

Then they saw the doctor's face.

If I could erase one moment from being eighteen, it would be that one.

The uncertainty was unbearable.

"It could be a heart attack."

"It could be a heart condition."

Even the doctors didn't know what was happening.

That was the scariest part.

I still cry writing about that night.

When death comes that close to you, nothing matters anymore.

Not fame.

Not popularity.

Not beauty.

Not the people you like.

Not the people who like you.

Everything you once believed was important suddenly becomes so unbelievably small.

When death stands close enough for you to feel its breath, your mind goes blank.

That is exactly what happened to me.

I watched my parents cry in front of a hospital for the first time in my life, begging God to spare me. I watched fear consume the strongest people I knew. I watched the confidence leave the doctor's face. I watched reports get passed from one specialist to another, ECGs travel between hospitals and cities, and surgery become a word that was suddenly part of my life.

I hated you, 18.

I hated the way you made me feel.

I hated the look on my parents' faces when they were told it might be something serious.

I hated wearing an ECG for days, carrying it around like a ticking countdown I couldn't escape.

I hated hugging my mom and dad so tightly because, for the first time in my life, I wasn't sure how many more chances I'd get to do it.

Nothing prepares you for seeing your parents look at you as if they might lose you.

Nothing.

Everything else became meaningless.

The friendships.

The heartbreaks.

The crushes.

The drama.

Compared to my life itself, compared to the possibility of death, they all disappeared into the background.

For the first time, I understood how fragile everything really was.
I truly hope those days never return because nobody deserves to experience them.

They broke me in ways I still struggle to explain.

Even now, I rarely talk about them because they require a level of vulnerability I don't easily allow myself. I never even told CEO or Childhood Bestie. This is one of those parts of my life that I've always wanted to keep hidden. Only my parents and my best friend know what really happened.

The worst part?

We received my diagnosis on my aunt's birthday.

While my world was falling apart, she was upset that we weren't celebrating her instead.

I didn't want to die.

I was only eighteen.

There was still so much left that I wanted to experience. Every single night I begged God not to take me away. I wasn't ready.

After countless hospital visits, endless tests, multiple specialists, and even being advised to consider surgery, we finally received the correct diagnosis. I was prescribed medication that helped manage everything, but healing wasn't immediate. There were still sleepless nights. Still nights where I lay awake listening to my own heartbeat, terrified of what it might do next.

Around that same time, university applications were also happening. Thankfully, I received my acceptance.

Yet by the time university was about to begin, I hated life.

I hated everyone.

I hated everything.

Looking back, I don't blame myself.

I had lost friendships I thought would last forever.

I heard words from my own mother that broke my heart.

I had been diagnosed with a heart condition.

I had quietly let go of someone I had loved for six years.

It was a terrible summer.

The last thing I wanted was to start university.

I seriously considered taking a gap year.

My parents, however, insisted that I needed a fresh environment. They believed distraction would help me heal, even if I couldn't believe it myself.

So I went.

On induction day everyone smiled at me.

Everyone was kind.

Everyone seemed excited.

And I...

I barely smiled back.

I walked around with a face full of exhaustion and resentment. Looking back, I probably came across as rude, but after everything that had happened that summer, I simply didn't have the emotional strength to pretend I was okay.

Leaving me at university wasn't easy for my parents either. They had only recently learned about my heart condition, and now they were expected to leave me in another city. Despite every fear they carried, they still encouraged me to stay for two days on my own as a trial.

I met my roommates.

Then, when everyone was gone, I sat on the dorm room floor and cried.

I cried because eighteen had already exhausted me before university had even begun.

I cried because I wondered how much more pain I was expected to endure.

I cried because I was scared.

Terrified, actually.

But eventually I reached a point where I asked myself a simple question.

How long was I going to let this version of myself exist?

There was an entirely new life waiting outside that dorm room.

So I stood up.

I closed my laptop.

I put on some nice clothes.

I did my makeup.

Then I walked out alone to explore the campus.

On the elevator ride down, I met a white guy. We started talking, and he was surprisingly friendly.

Standing there, I realized something.

After everything eighteen had put me through, I didn't want to introduce myself as the same person who had walked into that summer.

So I chose a new name.

From that moment on, I became V.

I wanted to reinvent myself.

I wanted another persona.

An alter ego.

Back then, I convinced myself that this alter ego existed to become a better version of myself. Looking back now, I realize it was simply a shield. A shield protecting me from ever letting people get close enough to hurt me again.

After that summer, I trusted no one.

Not romantically.

Not platonically.

No one.

I refused to let another person get that close to my heart again.

Ironically, now that I had a diagnosed heart condition, I had to protect my heart in more ways than one.

So I became V.

V was fearless.

V didn't care what people thought.

V didn't feel guilt.

V didn't feel shame.

V would do whatever she wanted because she only had one life, and after standing so close to death, I had learned that tomorrow was never guaranteed.

Death had permanently changed the way I looked at life.

It was my very first day on campus.

I wandered around on my own, trying to familiarize myself with the place that would become my home for the next few years. People smiled at me. Some even started conversations. I remember talking to one particularly attractive senior while we stood petting the campus cats together. He offered to show me around and told me that if I ever needed anything on campus, I could always find him.

It felt...

Hopeful.

Like maybe this was the beginning of something entirely new.

Then university truly began.

And just like you had taken everything away from me at the start of the year, 18, you slowly started giving pieces of it back.

Bit by bit.

Trust didn't come easily.

Neither did friendships.

I still kept everyone at arm's length, but I talked to more people than I ever had before. I smiled more. I laughed more. I built a life from scratch.

At a medical check-up, of all places, I met two girls who would eventually become my closest friends. We unknowingly became a trio that would carry me through my entire first year.

Then Halloween happened.

Everything changed.

That party became the beginning of an entirely different version of me.

It was my first university party.

My first time drinking.

My first time getting properly drunk.

My first time stepping into a club.

My first time feeling like I was living inside one of those coming-of-age movies I'd always romanticized.

It was the first time I realized people actually found me attractive.

The first time I realized...

I could pull.

That night awakened something rebellious inside me.

Soon enough came my first situationship.

My first kiss.

A memory I don't think I'll ever forget.

Whenever I think about him, Cigarettes After Sex immediately starts playing in my head. Our relationship felt exactly like a cigarette.

Toxic.

Addictive.

Comforting.

Destructive.

We shared cigarettes underneath the bus stop.

We made out until sunrise.

I refused to let him kiss my lips until our fourth date, so instead we kissed each other's necks.

He played with my hair.

I played with his.

I'd come home at four in the morning, exhausted but somehow smiling.

Those moments belong to eighteen.

At the same time, life never stopped throwing side quests at me.

There was the humiliating episode of severe constipation that somehow became a hospital visit.

There were unexpected family obligations that stopped me from returning to university on time.

There were random Wattpad-worthy encounters with strangers around campus.

There was the elevator senior.

There were adventures I never expected to experience.

Then that situationship quietly came to an end.

Not long after, Childhood Bestie replied to one of my stories.

And suddenly we were back.

Five-hour phone calls.

Talking until sunrise.

Sharing everything.

We had both experienced heartbreak in different ways, and somehow that made us understand each other even more.

Those conversations became one of my favourite memories from eighteen.

By then I was going out almost every day, constantly meeting new people and making new friends.

University Semester One had completely transformed me.

Then Semester Two somehow became even crazier.

You introduced more characters into my story than I ever thought possible.

Suddenly I had multiple friend groups.

Several people I was interested in.

And then...

You brought CEO back.

After six years.

You finally allowed me to live the fantasy I had spent so many years imagining.

Except reality wasn't quite what fantasy had promised.

I got the kiss I had dreamed about.

I got to know the person behind the fantasy.

And somehow, eighteen didn't just give me him.

It gave me everything.

Friends.

Love interests.

Childhood Bestie again.

CEO.

New adventures.

New stories.

A version of myself I had never met before.

You overcompensated for every hardship you had thrown at me during the beginning of the year.

Then...

You reminded me once again that life doesn't stop taking.

You took my grandmother.

I genuinely believed she'd still be around when I got married one day.

Instead, she left much sooner than I had ever imagined.

Once again, you reminded me that death doesn't wait for perfect timing.

And because of that reminder...

I lived.

I made reckless decisions.

I occasionally drank.

Occasionally smoked.

Stayed out until sunrise.

Went on spontaneous walks with friends.

Got a belly piercing my mom would never have approved of.

Snuck out.

Fell in and out of situationships.

Collected memories instead of regrets.

Eighteen gave me freedom.

Independence.

Growth.

Character development.

But above everything else...

You left me with one truth that never left my mind.

Death is inevitable.

Which is exactly why life deserves to be lived as fully as possible.

That is why you should start living more.

And that is exactly what I did.

I lived as much as I possibly could.

I really did, 18.

Even today, I still don't know whether I loved you or hated you.

I still can't decide whether I'll miss you or whether you'll forever remain the year I hated the most.

You gave me so many firsts.

But you also gave me so many endings.

Maybe that's why I both love you and hate you.

This is my love letter to you.

Because by the end of eighteen, I had learned lessons that no other year could have ever taught me.

At seventeen, I was hopelessly delusional.

I lived inside a fantasy where everything eventually worked out, where people stayed, where love conquered everything, and where life somehow always followed the script I had written in my head.

Then you happened.

You humbled me in ways I never imagined possible.

You made me cry myself to sleep.

You broke my heart.

You made living feel unbelievably difficult.

Then, just when I thought there was nothing left of me, you slowly gave me everything I had spent years dreaming about.

You forced me to see reality.

Not because you wanted to hurt me.

Because fantasy alone was never going to help me grow.

You took things away that I thought belonged to me forever.

Yet somehow, you also gave me exactly what I needed.

Looking back now, I realize something.

The things I wanted weren't always the things I needed.

And sometimes the things I desperately needed arrived disguised as heartbreak.

By the end of my first year at university, I couldn't believe eighteen was already over.

Somehow, in just one year, I became someone I barely recognized.

I finally got a job.

I started making videos.

I created stories that felt like pieces of my soul.

I experienced freedom.

I made mistakes.

I grew.

I moved.

I lived.

All because you forced me to stop hiding inside fantasies and begin existing inside reality.

Fantasy is beautiful.

It always will be.

But sometimes...

Fantasy simply isn't enough.

Sometimes reality has lessons fantasy could never teach.

So thank you, 18.

Thank you for terrifying me.

Thank you for breaking me.

Thank you for rebuilding me.

Thank you for every first.

Thank you for every ending.

Today is my last day of being eighteen.

And what a remarkable, heartbreaking, unforgettable ride it has been.

You were the year life felt closest to 2019 again.

The closest I had come to reliving the happiest period of my life.

Yet you were also the year that made me feel more pain than even 2020 or 2021, the years I once believed would always remain the darkest chapters of my life.

That is why, 18...

I still don't know whether I should kiss you...

or kill you.

I don't know what to do or think, really. I keep checking whether the app is still installed on my phone. Every time I delete it, it comes back. I am typing this with trembling hands, and my heart hasn't stopped racing since yesterday. I really wish I hadn't taken up that job.

I have no time or even the mental energy, really, to give you guys each and every detail, so I'll keep this short. Let me start from the beginning. My name doesn't really matter now, but for context, I am a business major and a full-time student at University Z. Like every university student, my lifestyle demands more money than the allowance I get from my parents each month. Between the monotonous routine of classes I followed every day, I desperately kept hunting for an opportunity. Small part-time gigs that would help me pay for my extra thrills and clubs. I couldn't stand mundane jobs, and internships at my university paid barely enough to scrape by, let alone fund my night adventures. I was desperate but also extremely selective. I wanted to do something I enjoyed but also get a decent amount for it. As if a genie had been listening, I got my wish granted, and soon a perfect opportunity got thrown my way.

"Hiring native English speakers for a new English-speaking app. Get PAID just to send voice messages!"

"No requirements other than speaking fluent English!"

"Get paid up to $50."

My jaw almost dropped to the floor when I saw I could potentially be getting paid a whole whopping 50 dollars for something I do every day effortlessly for free. No, really, I thought this job was specifically designed for people like me. In fact, even in university I had quite the reputation for being extremely extroverted and a chatterbox, and now someone had decided to fund those skills. There was no way in hell I'd be missing this heck of a golden opportunity, so I applied with the urgency I lacked when I had to submit assignments worth my entire grade. Fingers working faster than my brain even processed everything. I wish I had paused and questioned something that was this good to be true, and strangely convenient. Again, I was—I mean am—a dumb college student. I was blinded by my greed.

And it was about to be costly.

Soon I aced the interview (of course), heard back from my employer, and got handed a PDF with the instructions I'd need to follow in order to use the app. There were no strange rules or regulations, no excessive documentation, just plain, simple information on how to operate the app correctly and how I'd be getting paid through PayPal by the 8th of next month. It was as simple as it could get. I wondered, hah, maybe I had found a loophole and thanked God with a smile of mischief, already planning how I'd spend my money.

Only if I knew how that smile would wipe off in a matter of a few days.

It was a Wednesday and... upon opening the app, I was instructed to customize my account, so I put in my best picture (hoping I'd make some use of my good looks), added a short introduction about myself and my hobbies, and got started. Within a few minutes, I was flooded with friend requests from all sorts of people: students, bots, and some creepy randos. Hmm, there was no way I was accepting any of them. I decided to wait a little longer before proceeding, and then I stumbled across HIS profile.

"Friend request by James, waiting to be accepted..."

This one caught my eye because, unlike the others, this one was willing to ask about my day. He seemed invested in me rather than just trying to improve his speaking. He was a bit older, although his charming smile and unbuttoned black shirt weren't helping, so I accepted the request and sent two voice messages.

The reply came back almost immediately.

He was soft-spoken, controlled, almost as if, if he'd spoken a word or two too loudly, I would run away. The composure he had was slightly unsettling, but I found it sweet. Shaking my head, I convinced myself to remain professional and turned my attention back to the words he was saying.

"Hey. I wasn't sure if you'd accept. It's really nice hearing your voice again."

Again?

I furrowed my brows. I had never even seen him before. What did he mean by again? I quickly brushed it off. This was an English learning app after all, and I'm pretty sure he misspoke a few words or so. I moved on quickly and continued our conversation.

I shouldn't have.

Days went on, and everything was going beyond perfect. I was attending my classes, going to parties, and ended up making even more friends from my new job. But James? He was my closest, and I had a soft spot for him more than I'd like to admit. I strictly prohibited myself from mixing my personal life with my professional one, but James kept getting in my way.

I would spend hours and hours talking to him, and he'd listen. He understood each and every word I said as if he knew the next sentence I was about to say. Sometimes it unsettled me because his accuracy was terrifyingly correct, but logically I thought I'd met someone who understood me more than I could ever understand myself.

There were instances, though, when things were just... unusual.

Once I was upset about a math exam that was going to be worth my final grade. Being me, I had procrastinated studying, and now, two days before the exam, I had no idea what half of my syllabus even meant. Naturally, I shared this with James, and with the confidence only my math professor could have, he told me to go through specific pages from my book because those would be the core questions on my exam. At first, I laughed it off and thought he was bluffing, but regardless, I ended up studying those pages, secretly accepting that I would fail this semester.

But when I saw the exact same questions, word for word, on my exam, I froze.

Was James bluffing? Did he have connections with the professor? Was this a coincidence?

Whatever it was, I assigned James as my lucky charm after that day. I wasn't going to question good things and ruin them by questioning every strange comment.

But it just kept getting weirder.

He would not only remember things I clearly hadn't told even my closest friends, let alone him, but he also knew what was going to happen to me. On one instance, he told me to call my mom and make up after the fight I had with her. I never told him that.

Or did I?

Any time I'd ask how he knew these things, he joked that he was my dead husband.

I soon knew why.

The memory of that day is still fresh and vivid in my mind. James and I were deep in conversation, almost forgetting the world beyond us existed. It had been quite some time talking to him on the phone, but now I itched to see him in real life, to feel his warmth against my skin, and to have his big hands cup my small face and reassure me that he would be by my side. I liked him enough to break my small rule, and therefore brought up the idea of a date.

James chuckled, and I helplessly smiled.

James explained that would never happen.

"Why not?" I rebelled.

"It's complicated, cupcake. Maybe one day in the afterlife."

"Afterlife? Gosh, James, you're weird."

I rolled my eyes in fury, but to make it up to me, he sent me a picture of us generated by artificial intelligence. Oh, how I love this generation sometimes. We looked picture-perfect, me and him, together. I blushed far too much, and he had his fair share of fun teasing me.

Then suddenly he said something that wiped the grin off my face in a second.

"Do you still think about that accident, cupcake?"

Every ounce of color drained from my face after I heard that sentence. I clutched onto my pearl necklace as tightly as I could to get an ounce of comfort, but I only ended up feeling suffocated instead. Suddenly, the room around me shrunk, and the walls started closing in. I closed my eyes and dropped my phone.

Only one question repeated through my head.

How could he possibly know?

No one knew about the accident.

Not my friends.

Not my family.

Not even my mom.

How did he?

I had buried that accident so deep down, but now, against my will, my brain kept replaying the unpleasant sound of screeching tires. It was loud, excruciatingly loud, so loud that I had to cover my ears so they wouldn't bleed. I could still feel my intoxicated self gripping tightly onto the steering wheel while the smell of alcohol lingered around me like a nauseating fragrance. I could see the maroon blood that painted my car as clear as crystal. The flashing lights almost made my heart stop.

I killed someone.

Soon, I blacked out.

I woke up to the sun piercing through my cream curtains, and I was safe in my room. All of a sudden, the memories came rushing back to me, and soon adrenaline took over my body. I instinctively picked up my phone and saw one voice note from James. I decided I wasn’t going to open it. Not in a million years.

The whole day passed, and I didn’t do anything except stare at a wall. I couldn’t move. I felt paralyzed by the memories I had tried so hard to conceal under my daily routine. I opened up my laptop and started digging for any information I could get on that night, maybe finding a clue as to how James could possibly know about the accident.

I searched and searched countless websites, archives, and even videos, but I found nothing. No trace of my name linked to a crime. I went through forums and reports of crimes committed in our small town, but nothing. I was slightly relieved, to be very honest, but still perplexed about James.

Who was he?

Then I typed in his full name.

Pressed search.

And I wish I never did.

I came across an archived article with his name in bold, paired with words I never anticipated would be related to him.

“James, 26, pronounced dead this Saturday after attempting to help an intoxicated driver.”

“No trace of the driver found yet. They fled the scene.”

I have no words left to describe how I feel, let alone know what to do.

The profile still says:

Last online: Yesterday.

I know that’s impossible.

Sometimes… it changes.

I finally opened his last voice message last night.

“I’m glad you reached home safe. I saved you this time.”

“Maybe next time you’ll save me.”

Some days genuinely feel like they were written by someone who couldn't decide on a single plot.

Yesterday started at an hour that should honestly be illegal. My best friend and I decided it would be a fantastic idea to wake up before the birds themselves and drive to the lake just to watch the sunrise. Looking back, I'd do it again a hundred times over.

The sky slowly shifted from darkness into shades of pink and orange while the world was still asleep. There was something oddly comforting about the silence. It felt like the universe hadn't fully loaded yet, and for once, neither had my brain.

We talked.

Not the usual, "How's uni?" or "Guess what happened?" kind of talking.

Real talking.

The kind where conversations somehow drift from love to death to purpose to growing up without either of you realizing how you got there. Somewhere in between, we ended up sharing poetry we'd written about our old crushes. Reading something that vulnerable out loud is terrifying, yet oddly freeing when it's with someone who has known every version of you.

For a brief moment, life genuinely felt like one of those coming-of-age films that everyone pretends aren't secretly their favorite.

Then the universe remembered it was writing my life.

A few hours later, I officially got my first job.

I still can't believe my first ever job is... talking.

No, seriously.

I'm literally getting paid to have conversations with people in English.

Professional yapper.

Years of talking absolutely everyone's ears off have finally paid off. Somewhere out there is a company that listened to my two-minute voice note and thought, "Yes. We'd like to financially support whatever this is."

Honestly? Respect.

Right after celebrating that tiny win, my exam results came out.

My report card looked like it had multiple personalities.

...and then maths decided to express itself with a beautiful, artistic 20.

Twenty.

Not thirty.

Not forty.

TWENTY.

At that point I wasn't even angry. I almost had to admire the commitment.

The funny part is I saw it coming from miles away. I procrastinated maths harder than I've procrastinated anything in my life, focused on every other module because I knew I was walking into that exam completely unprepared, and then had the audacity to leave the exam early.

Shocking outcome, really.

Naturally, my mom looked at me with the confidence of someone who already knew before I even opened the results.

"I knew it."

Thanks, Mom.

Love the support.

Instead of dramatically mourning my academic downfall, I opened the lecture slides almost immediately.

Spite is an incredible motivator.

By the end of today, I'd already finished four out of the five topics in my first maths lecture, revised some driving theory because apparently I'm also learning how to operate a vehicle now, and even had my first conversation on the app.

The funniest part?

The app pays around 10 dollars an hour.

TEN.

To talk.

If you know me personally, you'll know I've been doing that for free my entire life.

So if everything goes according to plan, after spending my morning discussing the meaning of life during sunrise, getting my first job, failing maths, signing up for driving lessons, surviving my parents' lecture, and ending the night angrily revising derivatives...

I think I've officially accepted one thing.

A few days ago, I complained that life had become boring.

The universe clearly heard me.

Next time, I'll be a little more specific.

Some people are meant for bigger things in life, and some are content with mundaneness, but Mila V., Lord Mila V., was meant to rob each heart that laid eyes upon her. Huge billboards displayed her pictures with pride, reminding everyone that we all existed at the same time as her.

Countless people made it their life goal to catch even the slightest glimpse of her. Her presence was undeniably loud, and her charm captured everyone. Age, gender, and sexuality weren't taken into account; Mila V. was relevant beyond human comprehension. Reports suggested that people used to wait in queues for days whenever there was news of her being out.

Amongst those blinded fans was my best friend, Ava. Perhaps the most attractive girl in our town, with her hypnotic big brown eyes, luscious deep black hair, and olive skin. I had been friends with Ava for the majority of my life, and I adored her deeply, caring for her like a sister. Ava had phases where she would hyperfixate on things and celebrities, but her latest obsession had been Mila.

I would say this had perhaps been the longest time she had spent idolizing someone. Usually, she would get over it and move on, but with Mila, Ava couldn't even try to think about something else. I, on the other hand, secretly never understood the hype surrounding Mila. Even though everyone around me worshipped her like a god, my gut always felt something was unnerving about her.

She was perfect.

Almost too perfect. It felt like every inch of her skin had been polished to reach its maximum beauty. She existed like someone who had never experienced a bad day in her entire life. Every photograph captured her flawlessly, every appearance was effortless, and every movement seemed carefully perfected.

She was hauntingly perfect.

And when things are too good to be true, they usually are.

August had started to roll by, and I was busy building a little life for myself by working at the cafe downtown. I convinced myself the pay was good enough to rent a cheap apartment nearby and keep food on the table. I vividly remember one particular day.

I had just finished my shift at the cafe and was ready to close down and walk back home when I came across Ava's post. Right. It was August. How could I forget?

Every year, Mila V.'s team decided to hold what I liked to call "an annual pilgrimage." Absolute stupidity in my opinion, but also quite a clever business move.

On this "holy" day, one of Mila's billions of admirers secured a chance to meet her and spend a day with her. As expected, Ava had signed up for this year yet again.

What I found ridiculous was that the entry fee for spending a day with someone who wouldn't have even acknowledged your existence on a normal day ranged up to $800, with a strict no-refund policy. Yet people paid it without hesitation.

The website had once crashed because of the number of people trying to enter simultaneously. To them, it wasn't a fee. It was an offering.

I swiped away from Ava's post while mumbling about how absurd she was for spending all the money she'd been saving for medical school. As her best friend, I had her best interests at heart and tried knocking some sense into her, but it led to nothing but failed attempts.

At this point, I was praying she'd get the opportunity to finally win. Her happiness meant everything to me but so did her dying bank account. Soon, I got home and drifted into a deep sleep.

Before the sunlight could pass through my translucent curtains and even get the chance to paint my apartment, my phone buzzed relentlessly. Call after call.

"Which idiot decided to ruin my sweet slumber?" I groaned.

I grew frustrated with each buzz as my hands searched desperately for my phone, hoping to get even a minute of silence. With my eyes half closed, I finally answered the call. Ava produced a deafening squeal, loud enough to make me pull the phone away from my ear. I tried calming her down, asking what had happened, but she refused to listen. "I'm selected."

"I fucking got selected."

At this point, she was breathless, and my brain was barely functioning because I still had no clue what she was talking about. With heavy eyes, I begged her to explain. "Are you slow? I finally get to fucking meet Mila V.!" Ava screeched.

Before I could even process the sentence, my body jerked upright.Out of all the billions of people who signed up every year, out of every single person who wanted this chance... Ava got selected.

My fucking Ava?

I couldn't believe her. Or my ears, really.

The night was a blur after that announcement, as Ava and I immediately met up and shared the overwhelming excitement that grew with each passing minute. I hugged her tightly and congratulated her on finally getting something she had been chasing for years, even if that was just meeting another person.

I knew how much this meant to her, and I was genuinely ecstatic for her.

Through my cheers and the long list of fantasies Ava and I kept building, she informed me that she had received an email from the V Foundation, directed specifically to her, containing rules and regulations for the meet and greet.

(Fair, to be honest. Mila was a global star after all.)

Ava eagerly opened the email, and we started reading.

SUBJECT:

Congratulations! You have been selected by Mila V.

We are delighted to inform you that you have been selected for an exclusive day with Mila V.

Please follow the rules below and bring the required documents listed:

1.) Please bring a government-issued photo ID.

- Passport

- Emergency contact information

- Signed medical questionnaire

2.) Phones, smartwatches, cameras, and all electronic devices must be handed to the V Foundation upon arrival. They will be returned to their respective owners once the day is over.

3.) All guests are required to sign a comprehensive confidentiality agreement before entering the estate.

4.) Transportation will be provided exclusively by the V Foundation.

5.) Please avoid eating for four hours before your scheduled arrival.

6.) Remove all jewelry before arrival.

7.) Please arrive without makeup or cosmetic enhancements.

8.) Please do not alter your hair color, hairstyle, or facial hair after receiving this email.

9.) Notify us immediately of any injuries, illnesses, or cosmetic procedures.

10.) You may be photographed throughout the experience.

11.) Please do not bring any item of sentimental value.

Please refrain from discussing the details of your experience until contacted by our media relations team.

Thank you for your patience and cooperation.

Love,

V Foundation

By the time Ava and I finished reading the entire thing, she was practically shrieking with joy while I stood there slightly dumbfounded. Some rules, without a doubt, made sense due to safety reasons. But others? They sounded absolutely absurd to a third party who wasn't as interested in meeting Mila V.

As I continued reading the email, my brows furrowed in confusion and unease. Why on earth would rule number seven even be relevant for a meet and greet with your idol?

It didn't make sense. In fact, it only fueled my suspicions about Mila V.

I glanced at Ava with a concerned look, but she simply shrugged. A permanent grin was plastered across her face as if she didn't mind any of the rules and had completely abandoned rational decision-making.

She overlooked everything. She was so absorbed in her fantasy that it felt impossible to pull her back to reality.

I wasn't going to let this go.

Throughout the days before the designated date, I tried convincing Ava to take precautions and question the V Foundation about the rules again. I wanted to know why some of them were relevant for a simple meet and greet.

But every single time, Ava laughed it off.

She always had a reason.

"This just goes to show how seriously Mila's team takes the experience."

"Girl, if they were trying to harm me, I'm pretty sure people before me would've been dead."

"Oh my God, chill, will you, Mom?"

"Are you jealous that I'm finally meeting Mila?"

I eventually gave up after she mentioned jealousy and let her be, even though I was still skeptical and strongly against it.

Eventually, the day arrived sooner than I expected. Ava departed to live her lifelong fantasy with Mila V. in a sleek black SUV. Even the chauffeur was impeccably dressed and carried himself with a level of professionalism that felt almost rehearsed. He escorted my best friend inside before the vehicle disappeared from my sight.

I hugged Ava tightly before she left, secretly hoping she would return safe and sound.

After all, she was about to live her dream.

I returned to my small, cozy cafe and threw myself back into my monotonous work environment. The familiar scent of fresh milk and bread made me feel safe, and I soon started taking orders. I hate to admit it, but throughout the entire day, I thought about Ava and wondered what she was doing at that exact moment.

I was tempted to text her, but knowing she wouldn't have her phone with her, I avoided even trying.

The day passed quickly as I got busy making coffee and cleaning up after people. I closed the cafe and returned home.

Ava would be arriving at ten in the morning, and I had plans to meet her that afternoon.

I was looking forward to it.

I couldn't wait to hear her shriek and giggle with excitement as she told me every detail about her day.

The way she wore her signature downturned smile before telling me good news was always a dead giveaway for the type of news I'd be hearing, and without fail, it always ended up making me laugh.

That downturned smile never returned. But Ava did.

Some people are meant for bigger things in life, and some are content with mundaneness, but Mila V., Lord Mila V., was meant to rob each heart that laid eyes upon her. Huge billboards displayed her pictures with pride, reminding everyone that we all existed at the same time as her.

Countless people made it their life goal to catch even the slightest glimpse of her. Her presence was undeniably loud, and her charm captured everyone. Age, gender, and sexuality weren't taken into account; Mila V. was relevant beyond human comprehension. Reports suggested that people used to wait in queues for days whenever there was news of her being out.

Amongst those blinded fans was my best friend, Ava. Perhaps the most attractive girl in our town, with her hypnotic big brown eyes, luscious deep black hair, and olive skin. I had been friends with Ava for the majority of my life, and I adored her deeply, caring for her like a sister. Ava had phases where she would hyperfixate on things and celebrities, but her latest obsession had been Mila.

I would say this had perhaps been the longest time she had spent idolizing someone. Usually, she would get over it and move on, but with Mila, Ava couldn't even try to think about something else. I, on the other hand, secretly never understood the hype surrounding Mila. Even though everyone around me worshipped her like a god, my gut always felt something was unnerving about her.

She was perfect.

Almost too perfect. It felt like every inch of her skin had been polished to reach its maximum beauty. She existed like someone who had never experienced a bad day in her entire life. Every photograph captured her flawlessly, every appearance was effortless, and every movement seemed carefully perfected.

She was hauntingly perfect.

And when things are too good to be true, they usually are.

August had started to roll by, and I was busy building a little life for myself by working at the cafe downtown. I convinced myself the pay was good enough to rent a cheap apartment nearby and keep food on the table. I vividly remember one particular day.

I had just finished my shift at the cafe and was ready to close down and walk back home when I came across Ava's post. Right. It was August. How could I forget?

Every year, Mila V.'s team decided to hold what I liked to call "an annual pilgrimage." Absolute stupidity in my opinion, but also quite a clever business move.

On this "holy" day, one of Mila's billions of admirers secured a chance to meet her and spend a day with her. As expected, Ava had signed up for this year yet again.

What I found ridiculous was that the entry fee for spending a day with someone who wouldn't have even acknowledged your existence on a normal day ranged up to $800, with a strict no-refund policy. Yet people paid it without hesitation.

The website had once crashed because of the number of people trying to enter simultaneously. To them, it wasn't a fee. It was an offering.

I swiped away from Ava's post while mumbling about how absurd she was for spending all the money she'd been saving for medical school. As her best friend, I had her best interests at heart and tried knocking some sense into her, but it led to nothing but failed attempts.

At this point, I was praying she'd get the opportunity to finally win. Her happiness meant everything to me but so did her dying bank account. Soon, I got home and drifted into a deep sleep.

Before the sunlight could pass through my translucent curtains and even get the chance to paint my apartment, my phone buzzed relentlessly. Call after call.

"Which idiot decided to ruin my sweet slumber?" I groaned.

I grew frustrated with each buzz as my hands searched desperately for my phone, hoping to get even a minute of silence. With my eyes half closed, I finally answered the call. Ava produced a deafening squeal, loud enough to make me pull the phone away from my ear. I tried calming her down, asking what had happened, but she refused to listen. "I'm selected."

"I fucking got selected."

At this point, she was breathless, and my brain was barely functioning because I still had no clue what she was talking about. With heavy eyes, I begged her to explain. "Are you slow? I finally get to fucking meet Mila V.!" Ava screeched.

Before I could even process the sentence, my body jerked upright.Out of all the billions of people who signed up every year, out of every single person who wanted this chance... Ava got selected.

My fucking Ava?

I couldn't believe her. Or my ears, really.

The night was a blur after that announcement, as Ava and I immediately met up and shared the overwhelming excitement that grew with each passing minute. I hugged her tightly and congratulated her on finally getting something she had been chasing for years, even if that was just meeting another person.

I knew how much this meant to her, and I was genuinely ecstatic for her.

Through my cheers and the long list of fantasies Ava and I kept building, she informed me that she had received an email from the V Foundation, directed specifically to her, containing rules and regulations for the meet and greet.

(Fair, to be honest. Mila was a global star after all.)

Ava eagerly opened the email, and we started reading.

SUBJECT:

Congratulations! You have been selected by Mila V.

We are delighted to inform you that you have been selected for an exclusive day with Mila V.

Please follow the rules below and bring the required documents listed:

1.) Please bring a government-issued photo ID.

- Passport

- Emergency contact information

- Signed medical questionnaire

2.) Phones, smartwatches, cameras, and all electronic devices must be handed to the V Foundation upon arrival. They will be returned to their respective owners once the day is over.

3.) All guests are required to sign a comprehensive confidentiality agreement before entering the estate.

4.) Transportation will be provided exclusively by the V Foundation.

5.) Please avoid eating for four hours before your scheduled arrival.

6.) Remove all jewelry before arrival.

7.) Please arrive without makeup or cosmetic enhancements.

8.) Please do not alter your hair color, hairstyle, or facial hair after receiving this email.

9.) Notify us immediately of any injuries, illnesses, or cosmetic procedures.

10.) You may be photographed throughout the experience.

11.) Please do not bring any item of sentimental value.

Please refrain from discussing the details of your experience until contacted by our media relations team.

Thank you for your patience and cooperation.

Love,

V Foundation

By the time Ava and I finished reading the entire thing, she was practically shrieking with joy while I stood there slightly dumbfounded. Some rules, without a doubt, made sense due to safety reasons. But others? They sounded absolutely absurd to a third party who wasn't as interested in meeting Mila V.

As I continued reading the email, my brows furrowed in confusion and unease. Why on earth would rule number seven even be relevant for a meet and greet with your idol?

It didn't make sense. In fact, it only fueled my suspicions about Mila V.

I glanced at Ava with a concerned look, but she simply shrugged. A permanent grin was plastered across her face as if she didn't mind any of the rules and had completely abandoned rational decision-making.

She overlooked everything. She was so absorbed in her fantasy that it felt impossible to pull her back to reality.

I wasn't going to let this go.

Throughout the days before the designated date, I tried convincing Ava to take precautions and question the V Foundation about the rules again. I wanted to know why some of them were relevant for a simple meet and greet.

But every single time, Ava laughed it off.

She always had a reason.

"This just goes to show how seriously Mila's team takes the experience."

"Girl, if they were trying to harm me, I'm pretty sure people before me would've been dead."

"Oh my God, chill, will you, Mom?"

"Are you jealous that I'm finally meeting Mila?"

I eventually gave up after she mentioned jealousy and let her be, even though I was still skeptical and strongly against it.

Eventually, the day arrived sooner than I expected. Ava departed to live her lifelong fantasy with Mila V. in a sleek black SUV. Even the chauffeur was impeccably dressed and carried himself with a level of professionalism that felt almost rehearsed. He escorted my best friend inside before the vehicle disappeared from my sight.

I hugged Ava tightly before she left, secretly hoping she would return safe and sound.

After all, she was about to live her dream.

I returned to my small, cozy cafe and threw myself back into my monotonous work environment. The familiar scent of fresh milk and bread made me feel safe, and I soon started taking orders. I hate to admit it, but throughout the entire day, I thought about Ava and wondered what she was doing at that exact moment.

I was tempted to text her, but knowing she wouldn't have her phone with her, I avoided even trying.

The day passed quickly as I got busy making coffee and cleaning up after people. I closed the cafe and returned home.

Ava would be arriving at ten in the morning, and I had plans to meet her that afternoon.

I was looking forward to it.

I couldn't wait to hear her shriek and giggle with excitement as she told me every detail about her day.

The way she wore her signature downturned smile before telling me good news was always a dead giveaway for the type of news I'd be hearing, and without fail, it always ended up making me laugh.

That downturned smile never returned. But Ava did.

It was one of those countless nights when sleep eluded me entirely. My phone's light illuminated my face as my thumbs swiped through endless feeds, my eyes desperately seeking something interesting to focus on. Just another typical episode of my insomnia, or so I thought, until a sound changed the course of my entire existence. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Allow me to introduce myself.
I'm Brianna, an ordinary high school teenager. My life has been a routine mix of school, friends, crushes, and the usual teenage drama. Since childhood, my life has been pretty typical. I grew up with loving parents—my mom, a devoted Christian, and my dad, who shares her faith but is less religious. I also have a little brother. My life was as mundane as it gets, filled with the usual family routines and high school drama, until that night. That night marked the beginning of a terrifying nightmare that would change everything.

It was around 3 a.m., and for the past four days, sleep had been elusive until at least 5 a.m. I knew I had a couple more hours to go before the familiar heaviness would settle over my eyelids. Frustrated, I decided to put my phone away and try to get some rest. As soon as I closed my eyes, I heard footsteps outside my door, jolting me awake. My heart raced as I reassured myself it was just my mom getting up to use the restroom, like she did every night. But the footsteps didn't stop. I then heard another set, heavier and more deliberate. I assumed it was my dad, but a nagging thought crept into my mind, "What could they possibly be doing up at 3 a.m.?" Trying to shake off the unease, I closed my eyes again. But then I heard the front door creak open. A surge of adrenaline shot through me. The realization hit me like a cold wave—there could be intruders in the house. The footsteps I had assumed were my parents might belong to strangers. Panic set in, and I was frozen with dread. Little did I know, the truth awaiting me was far more terrifying than anything I could have imagined.

Thirty minutes had passed, and the only sounds were the faint rummaging of items, fueling my suspicion of intruders. Yet, something didn’t add up—I heard my mom's voice, which contrasted sharply with my doubts. All sorts of thoughts raced through my mind, but nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to witness.

An hour had passed, and I finally mustered all the courage I had. Frozen in terror for the past hour, I decided it was enough—I needed answers to the questions swirling in my head. I cautiously made my way toward the door and with trembling hands and a heart pounding louder than ever, I cautiously made my way toward the door. The door handle was cold as ice, sending a shiver down my spine as I gripped it firmly. Slowly, I pressed it downwards, desperate to make as little noise as possible. As the door creaked open, the noises became unmistakably clear. The sound of chanting filled the air, growing louder and more ominous with each repetition. It was a language I couldn't comprehend, my heart raced, and I felt the blood drain from my face.

I took one step forward, then another, and another, until I stood behind the translucent curtain that separated me from the scene that would haunt me forever. Beyond it, the darkness was pierced by the flickering light of countless candles illuminating my home. With trembling hands, I moved the curtains and what i witnessed was even more sinister than it sounded. I saw around 4 people wearing a black robes which covered half of their faces only revealing a slight portion of their face that allowed me to recognize my mom and dad. they all were holding a candle and standing around what looked like demonic symbol which looked like something a cult would have and it had been made with something red upon closer look, it looked like rice, red rice?

Regardless of my will to go back to room and pretending i never saw that , my legs went numb and i was unable to move, as if some entity was holding me tightly in place, wanting my parents or whoever those people are to see me. I did everything it took in my body to move and beat the paralyisis i was experiencing and i finallly breaked free dashing to my room as fast as i couldve possibly imagine while th chanting got deadly loud up to the point that when i closed my door i could still hear it loud clear. i feared about my brother and suddenly the voices stopped. It was over, but the terror of that moment liengered into my memory forever.

Needless to say i did not get an ounce of sleep that night.

The sun rose but I was still wide awake still processing the horrors of last night, Questions swirled relentlessly in my mind, each more unsettling than the last. Were those really my parents amidst that gathering? How could they be involved in something so chilling? And how long had this been going on for? My family shared everything with me but th word cult wasnt ever mentioned in our house let alone joining one. Our home had been filled with crosses and pictures of Jesus, symbols of faith and protection—or so I had believed. But the scene from last night painted a different reality, one that defied everything I thought I knew about my family's beliefs.

As time passed by, my parents and bother woke up at their usual times and blended into their routines, soon it was my time to wake up aswell and i gathered all my courage and went out, facing my prents after what i had encountered last nigh. Mom lit up as she saw me and greeted me with a hug, while i still looked a bit uncomfortable, she asked me if i was alright and i, with a bit of unease, nodded my head. My dad soon left for office and my brother and mum went to their separate rooms, while breakfast was ready for me at the dining table, but i didnt feel like eating. Being alone in my own house felt a terrifying now but i seated myself, attempting to eat.

All of a sudden, my thoughts were interrupted by a loud buzz coming from my moms phone, which she had apparently kept on the dining table. I was never a nosy person but after the events of last night, i was bound to find out anything more about the strange ritual yesterday. I picked up her phone and started going through it and what i found was beyond my wildest nighmares, beyond my imaginations.

I swiftly grabbed my phone and a few clothes, then bolted out of the house. My only refuge was my best friend Ashley's place—the only person I trusted. When she saw the panic on my face, she let me in without a word. I spilled everything: the messages I found revealing my mom's plan to sacrifice me in the name of Satan tonight, the drugged breakfast meant to keep me asleep all day. I was terrified and couldn't think straight. Ashley calmed me down and went to get some water. Alone in the bathroom, I tried to steady myself. But then I overheard Ashley on the phone, saying, "She's here at my house." My heart sank. Was Ashley in on it too? Was my mom behind everything? Now, I'm huddled in this bathroom, typing quietly. Ashley keeps knocking, asking if I'm okay. I'm planning my escape through the window, wondering if the only people I trusted were the ones planning to end my life

It was one of those countless nights when sleep eluded me entirely. My phone's light illuminated my face as my thumbs swiped through endless feeds, my eyes desperately seeking something interesting to focus on. Just another typical episode of my insomnia, or so I thought, until a sound changed the course of my entire existence. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Allow me to introduce myself.
I'm Brianna, an ordinary high school teenager. My life has been a routine mix of school, friends, crushes, and the usual teenage drama. Since childhood, my life has been pretty typical. I grew up with loving parents—my mom, a devoted Christian, and my dad, who shares her faith but is less religious. I also have a little brother. My life was as mundane as it gets, filled with the usual family routines and high school drama, until that night. That night marked the beginning of a terrifying nightmare that would change everything.

It was around 3 a.m., and for the past four days, sleep had been elusive until at least 5 a.m. I knew I had a couple more hours to go before the familiar heaviness would settle over my eyelids. Frustrated, I decided to put my phone away and try to get some rest. As soon as I closed my eyes, I heard footsteps outside my door, jolting me awake. My heart raced as I reassured myself it was just my mom getting up to use the restroom, like she did every night. But the footsteps didn't stop. I then heard another set, heavier and more deliberate. I assumed it was my dad, but a nagging thought crept into my mind, "What could they possibly be doing up at 3 a.m.?" Trying to shake off the unease, I closed my eyes again. But then I heard the front door creak open. A surge of adrenaline shot through me. The realization hit me like a cold wave—there could be intruders in the house. The footsteps I had assumed were my parents might belong to strangers. Panic set in, and I was frozen with dread. Little did I know, the truth awaiting me was far more terrifying than anything I could have imagined.

Thirty minutes had passed, and the only sounds were the faint rummaging of items, fueling my suspicion of intruders. Yet, something didn’t add up—I heard my mom's voice, which contrasted sharply with my doubts. All sorts of thoughts raced through my mind, but nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to witness.

An hour had passed, and I finally mustered all the courage I had. Frozen in terror for the past hour, I decided it was enough—I needed answers to the questions swirling in my head. I cautiously made my way toward the door and with trembling hands and a heart pounding louder than ever, I cautiously made my way toward the door. The door handle was cold as ice, sending a shiver down my spine as I gripped it firmly. Slowly, I pressed it downwards, desperate to make as little noise as possible. As the door creaked open, the noises became unmistakably clear. The sound of chanting filled the air, growing louder and more ominous with each repetition. It was a language I couldn't comprehend, my heart raced, and I felt the blood drain from my face.

I took one step forward, then another, and another, until I stood behind the translucent curtain that separated me from the scene that would haunt me forever. Beyond it, the darkness was pierced by the flickering light of countless candles illuminating my home. With trembling hands, I moved the curtains and what i witnessed was even more sinister than it sounded. I saw around 4 people wearing a black robes which covered half of their faces only revealing a slight portion of their face that allowed me to recognize my mom and dad. they all were holding a candle and standing around what looked like demonic symbol which looked like something a cult would have and it had been made with something red upon closer look, it looked like rice, red rice?

Regardless of my will to go back to room and pretending i never saw that , my legs went numb and i was unable to move, as if some entity was holding me tightly in place, wanting my parents or whoever those people are to see me. I did everything it took in my body to move and beat the paralyisis i was experiencing and i finallly breaked free dashing to my room as fast as i couldve possibly imagine while th chanting got deadly loud up to the point that when i closed my door i could still hear it loud clear. i feared about my brother and suddenly the voices stopped. It was over, but the terror of that moment liengered into my memory forever.

Needless to say i did not get an ounce of sleep that night.

The sun rose but I was still wide awake still processing the horrors of last night, Questions swirled relentlessly in my mind, each more unsettling than the last. Were those really my parents amidst that gathering? How could they be involved in something so chilling? And how long had this been going on for? My family shared everything with me but th word cult wasnt ever mentioned in our house let alone joining one. Our home had been filled with crosses and pictures of Jesus, symbols of faith and protection—or so I had believed. But the scene from last night painted a different reality, one that defied everything I thought I knew about my family's beliefs.

As time passed by, my parents and bother woke up at their usual times and blended into their routines, soon it was my time to wake up aswell and i gathered all my courage and went out, facing my prents after what i had encountered last nigh. Mom lit up as she saw me and greeted me with a hug, while i still looked a bit uncomfortable, she asked me if i was alright and i, with a bit of unease, nodded my head. My dad soon left for office and my brother and mum went to their separate rooms, while breakfast was ready for me at the dining table, but i didnt feel like eating. Being alone in my own house felt a terrifying now but i seated myself, attempting to eat.

All of a sudden, my thoughts were interrupted by a loud buzz coming from my moms phone, which she had apparently kept on the dining table. I was never a nosy person but after the events of last night, i was bound to find out anything more about the strange ritual yesterday. I picked up her phone and started going through it and what i found was beyond my wildest nighmares, beyond my imaginations.

I swiftly grabbed my phone and a few clothes, then bolted out of the house. My only refuge was my best friend Ashley's place—the only person I trusted. When she saw the panic on my face, she let me in without a word. I spilled everything: the messages I found revealing my mom's plan to sacrifice me in the name of Satan tonight, the drugged breakfast meant to keep me asleep all day. I was terrified and couldn't think straight. Ashley calmed me down and went to get some water. Alone in the bathroom, I tried to steady myself. But then I overheard Ashley on the phone, saying, "She's here at my house." My heart sank. Was Ashley in on it too? Was my mom behind everything? Now, I'm huddled in this bathroom, typing quietly. Ashley keeps knocking, asking if I'm okay. I'm planning my escape through the window, wondering if the only people I trusted were the ones planning to end my life

CHAT GPT*** dude I know I know I know i know u shld never ever read through someone history or diary or anything . I know well and for my well being I don’t do shi like this but today I don’t even know what happened and curiosity killed the cat and now I don’t know what to do and I have a weight of information I wish I never saw.

so it was pretty random I wasn’t on some detective shit today and hadn’t decided oh I wanna uncover the depths of my dads heart no. I was bust I had stuff to do read, write and practice for my drIving test. I was sitting at the table w my comp in front of me doing my work and then the housemaid comes and she’s cleaning the table and I grab the phone next to me and slide behind so can do her work properly. now this phone isn’t my dads or moms or brothers. it’s a spare phone we all use but my dad uses it the most cuz business work. but yea this phone stays at home and again used by everyone.

so i grabbed in and was going thru insta and then like i exited the app and yk how iPhone is it shows liked he previous apps you’ve used so i was clearing it and then i saw chatgpt opened up and im like ooh i didn’t know my mom used chat that often (idk why i assumed it was my mom) but I pressed on it for some reason bcs i thought the convos were about me (I know im narcissistic and I wanted to know what my mom secretly thought about me ) and I opened the app.

it opened up to a conversation about astrology and horoscopes and I was like interesting so I started going through it and maybe no I wish someone stopped me like I rlly wish someone did but no I was all alone and only the maid was w me so I started going up and up and up the chats slowly realizing that’s how my dad typed not mom.

I landed on one messenge which stopped me so I looked through it and my dad has his birthday and aski by chat Yk what his future will be like. I’m like okay interesting (my dad Is extremely practical and doesn’t believe in bs like this) and I’m like aw I go thru the chat more and hes saying I lost everything this year (he lost his mother and his stock market is going bad and his business partner has been unbearable) and when I read this I was like aw man that’s why he seems so sad aw i felt so so so bad and i shouldn’t STOPPED RIGHT . no I was curious to see how the chat started bcs in snippets of the convos my dad was asking about someone else’s horoscppe and posing as them ? so i was like that’s sus what the fuck.

so I go to the start and man I should’ve stopped. so I see the start of the convo begins as someones birthda, not my dads and this supposed person is marrying a algerian guy. and the message goes …. "this my birthday and I’m marrying a Algerian guy, how is the future gonna look like for me"

so I’m like what the absolute FUCK IS THIS. and who more importantly i read read read AND IT ALL FUCKING CLICKS

IT CLICKS

so apparently 2 years ago my dad was having an “affair“ with the supposed girl and my mom found out and there was a whole lotta shit but it died down but since then every month since that day my mom has been poking me everyday literally I think ur dad is having an affair I think and as a child of my dad i protected him and explained to my mom that she must be overreacting like she always does.

and she’s like listen to me, hear me I think dad is always diverted somewhere and hes always mad at me and doesn’t listen to me and doesn’t talk to me.

and I’m like mom chill and every time she mentioned it I just left the convo and left to the other room . I thought she was overreacting and I’m not gonna yk like give her encouragement I don’t wanna sabatoge my family like who tf wants to?

so anyways I read the chat and lord the things I read I wish I never read I never read I never did. there was no mention of my mom and only the mention of this bitch and my dad asking bullshit absolute bullshit like is there any chance for me or her. WILL SOMEONE ELSE ENTER MY LIFE?? my dad in Christ u disgust me u disgust me to the core thats why I hate men. he’s asking shit liek will this marriage work? liek what. bro there are more things he typed which lowkey just shook me to the core I genuinely felt like puking. dude my heart rate increased I started breahh t big heavy bcs my mom was right all along?

side I don’t even know my mom is a saint compared to my dad that woman has worshiped my dad been devoted to my dad and that man who I don’t even know what to call keeps asking about that bitch (no offence) and acts like he’s loveless and has no one to love him like um YOU HAVE A WHOLR ASS WIFE SIR A WHOLE ASS 19 YEAR OLD DAUGHTER SIR AND IF THATS NOT ENOUGH A YOUNG SON TOO.

man I am heartbroken for my mom that lady that women who’s a saint. dude

I don’t even know my since then my brain is not working like at all. ofc I’m not stupid and not gonna tell my mom bcs why would I wanna break my family. but keeping it from her feels like I’m committing a sin too. god i wished i stoppped. the texts were so my dad seemed like he was in love how could he. dude.

what do I do, fuck man. . and how do I act when my mom starts telling me her suspicions

If someone deserves a PhD on hopeless romanticism, that person should be me without any doubts or questions. Before I could even grasp the concept of romance or love and even life, really, I was already dreaming about it. God didn’t just make me a hopeless romantic. Nope. He personally assembled me from spare parts labeled “yearning,” “delusion,” and “unreasonable amounts of devotion,” stepped back to admire his work, and stamped it: Certified Hopeless Romantic. Of course, my first prince charming came in as early as age 5. There he was, my classmate, and every day without fail I dreamed of having my first kiss with him. At the age when kids cannot even form perfect sentences, I was directing, producing, and starring as the main lead in my first love story in my head with the dedication adult me still struggles to find when I have to submit an assignment. Needless to say, that was my first of many rejections, but hope? It always found its way back to me. Coming to think about it now as a young adult, what was my mom feeding me to have tendencies of a Taylor Swift song at such a young age?

Continuing, this longing for love never really stopped. In fact, it grew. At every stage of my life, it came back louder, more intense than I could ever imagine, almost having this invisible grip on me, which never loosened but instead hovered around me at each opportunity. Be that classrooms, cities, or even different chapters, it was always there. And yes, I know what you are about to say. That this is normal. Plenty of kids grow up romantic, often influenced by happily ever afters and magical stories that set completely unrealistic expectations (and should genuinely be banned). I hear you. However, I don’t think that was the case for me. It wasn’t a harmless little phase I would grow out of. Nope. I was obsessed. Obsessed in a way that consumes more mental space than it has any right to and colors every little thing you do. This wasn’t cute. This was concerning. I was infatuated by the way love worked, the way it felt, the butterflies, the giggles, the complete loss of logic and common sense it produced in normally functioning people. The fact that love could make a perfectly intelligent human being do something they would never, in any other context, consider doing, I found that fascinating. I wanted to understand it, to feel it, to be inside it. My younger self wasn’t just interested, she was in awe.

Needless to say, by the time I had reached adulthood, I had collected enough stories and moments to fill at least three romance novels, covering every trope you could possibly imagine, and I mean every single one. My understanding of love evolved with each experience, sure, but the fascination with love never faded. The prince charming always changed every single time. They had different faces, different ages, different countries, sometimes even different genders. In my defense, I never discriminated. If there was a possibility of romance, I was interested in studying it. Just yearning for someone to make me feel the way Romeo felt about Juliet. However, there was a recurring pattern that never seemed to change. It just adapted, living within me. Underneath all of it, the thing that remained unchanged was that there was always someone. Someone to daydream about while listening to heart-stirring melodies of love, someone to write sweet, poignant poetry about at midnight, and someone to romanticize so completely that any rational observer would have questioned my sanity.

I used to tell myself that I was the type to feel everything deeply and that I wore my heart on my sleeve. It felt true, but the older I got, I realized something. The faces changed, the circumstances changed too, yet somehow the role itself remained occupied. Always. As if my heart would not tolerate a vacancy for even a brief moment. The moment one story ended, another one would begin for me to fixate on, to romanticize up to a point where I gave them all the weight of my affection before they had given me a single reason to. As I grew older, I assumed this fixation was simply proof that I was a romantic, yet I began to wonder if this constant presence of a variety of people depicted something totally different. Eventually, I had to face an uncomfortable truth. If anyone could occupy the void and if the feelings were arriving on cue regardless of who triggered them, then the feeling was never about the person. Perhaps the love I’d been chasing relentlessly across different chapters of my life was never about the person. It was about the intoxicating thrill that arrived with someone new, and that high was irreplaceable, trapping me. Maybe my greatest love affair wasn’t with these individuals but with love itself.

In fact, this discovery is embarrassingly recent. Because for years, across all different candidates and the fresh excitement of someone new, I kept ending up in the same place. I still felt empty. Every single time. Don’t confuse it. I didn’t feel heartbroken, not even disappointed, but not fulfilled either. The best way I can describe it is quietly hollow, in a way I can only describe as honeymoon withdrawal. Slowly, a question started reoccurring every day in my life. Was I possibly doing love wrong? Was there a way to do it the right way? And if there was, why wasn’t it taught?

Because all those romance songs, novels, and movies that I had consumed (and I had practically made a hobby out of consuming them) appeared to follow the same predictable formula. One person comes by and shifts the entire trajectory of your life. Fireworks appear, the sun shines brighter, the colors seem more vibrant, and suddenly everything makes sense. As if that person were a missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle waiting to arrive at the right time. That was the promise and what I had been hopelessly waiting for. But that never happened to me. Or, more accurately, it always took place at the start of my story with someone but was never present by the ending. Somewhere between the start and the end, I realized I had stopped paying attention to the person entirely and instead focused on the picture-perfect script in my head, a version of them that didn’t even exist.

And maybe deep down that’s my biggest regret because, in reality, I never gave anyone the chance to be themselves. And by default, if they deviated from the perfect version I had created in my head, I would mentally be halfway out the door and focused on someone else. I had never fallen in love with anyone, just the versions of them in my head, the possibilities, the things they represented. The idea of them was always the first love. The actual person never got the audition. And that’s the most painful thing to admit because it means all these years of loving love, all this devotion and poetry and romantic energy I took pride in, something I undoubtedly thought about every single day of my life, it was directed at something I invented. All these years I had been molding love into something that fit the movie-version mold I had created, which remained untouched because I would rather protect the mold than risk finding out no one could fill it.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve never dated. That’s why my fear of commitment is greater than my love for romance, and I have a lot of love for romance. Because when it’s real, the chances of it hurting me are far greater than me walking away from someone. A fantasy cannot break your heart. A real person can.

I have come to a conclusion. A terrifying one. And it didn’t even appear as a dramatic revelation. It was just something subtle that suddenly clicked.

I have realized I don’t like romance fully as a whole. I don’t like the flaws. I like the beginning of it, the uncertainty and tension that comes with it, the possibilities that we could be something real without it having to be real. Because when reality comes knocking on the front door, I shake. I tremble to open the door and accept it. I fear that it won’t match up to my fantasies, and that thought is too precious to risk. I have kept it safe this whole time, and one real relationship could undo all of it. So I choose the fantasy. Every time. And if reality breaks that, I lose my favorite coping mechanism.

I see my friends, my situationships, and friends with benefits, and they all have one thing in common. Something I secretly envy but would never dare say out loud because saying it out loud means I have to admit it, and admitting it means I have to face reality and do something about it, and we all know how much I hate facing reality. They’ve given people a chance, all of them. They gave real people real access to their hearts and yes, without exception, it broke them. But they got back up and tried again, while I watched it happen over and over from a safe distance that I still don’t think I’m ready to leave.

I called this distance having high standards, knowing my worth. But if I’m being brutally honest, I felt jealous. Jealous of the fact that they went somewhere I know I still don’t have the courage to go. Because the person in front of me never matched the one in my head. They never will. How could they when the pen is in my hand? I don’t fear the person. I’m just terrified of what comes next after the tension breaks because what comes after the honeymoon phase is not fireworks. It’s someone who’s a real, ordinary human being with a morning routine and habits that have nothing to do with me and flaws that are not charming or poetic, just flaws.

And I cannot fit that inside my definition of love. I have tried, and it doesn’t fit. It just doesn’t.

The idea that love could be mundane and quiet while still counting as love kills something in me because it cannot. It’s the spark. It’s colorful. It is the ache that makes you write things at midnight you would never say out loud. So I do not accept it. Instead, I protect the fantasy with every muscle I have in me, as if it’s pure glass waiting to be shattered. I keep it untouched.

In reality, love is not an idea. It’s an action, a decision you choose to make every single day. Love isn’t the spark you hold onto when you feel empty. It’s what survives long after the spark fades. When the honeymoon phase ends and all the colors go back to normal and the person in front of you is just a person. Ordinary, imperfect, and yet you want them just like you did when you first met them.

And to be fair, I haven’t stayed until that point or even given it a fair shot. That realization is quite sad for someone who claimed she wanted it the most. And I don’t know. I really don’t know what to do with this information I have discovered because it’s the type of realization that arrives quietly and rearranges each experience. Looking back at every person who I claimed was my “first love,” people I wrote never-ending diary entries about and built entire storylines revolving around. What about them?

And now I’m sitting here more vulnerable than I’ve ever been, not claiming I’ll change my ways because my heart knows I’d rather bleed to death than stop worshipping love. This romanticism is not something I’d pick up along the way and drop in an instant. It is in me, the way music is in me, the way longing is in me. It’s automatic and almost natural.

I also clearly know what it costs.

This romanticism is a slow poison that’s killing me, but I refuse to let go of the beauty of it. It could be a hand around my throat, tightening its grip with each passing minute, and yet I would still bow down and kiss it with the remaining life I have in me. I don’t know if this is a beautiful feeling or a soul-crushing tragedy.

I don’t know how I’ll treat my future love interests or if I’ll finally see them for who they are. But God knows I’ll be trying. I can’t promise anything to myself, but maybe secretly I don’t want to