ログインThe expression he had on his face when I asked him for a divorce left me in shock. Why? Why does he look hurt? He never liked me. Five years in marriage, I tried everything I could to make my husband accept me, to make him look at me as a woman in his life as his wife. But instead, he goes around the city with his mistress and even brought her to our home. He disrespected me to the point I shouldn't take anymore, but I accepted it all and stayed back, all for Grandpa Walton. And now that Grandpa was gone, I had no reason to remain in the marriage anymore. “Let’s get a divorce,” I muttered again, as he stood, still puzzled, unable to believe this words were coming from my mouth.
もっと見るThe woman in front of me was a mirror. She wore my clothes, had my hair, and held a pen that looked like it could rewrite the stars. She stood in the middle of the park like she owned the sunlight, the grass, and the very air I was breathing."Who are you?" I asked. My voice felt rough, like I had been silent for years."I am the one who writes the drafts you discard," she said. Her voice was cool, calm, and carried no heat. She did not sound like a villain. She sounded like a colleague. "The Architect was just a project manager. He had no vision. He treated this world like a chore. I, on the other hand, love the mess."I stood up. My knees felt weak, but I didn't let her see me shake. I had already faced the void. I had already watched my world tear apart. What was one more copy of myself?
The Architect stood there, looking at me like I was just a toy he had left on the floor. His face was blank. No anger. No hate. Just that same cold, professional smile that had followed me through every hell he created."You really thought a hospital room was the end?" he asked. He tossed a stack of papers onto my bed. They were scripts. My life, written in ink, detailing every heartbeat and every mistake I had ever made. "You are not in the real world, Hazel. You are in the sequel. And I have already decided how this one ends."My blood ran cold. I reached for the pen I saw on the table, but my fingers passed right through it. It was a projection. A lie."Where is Bryan?" I demanded. I stood up, ignoring the IV line still taped to my hand. I ripped it out, letting the blood drip onto the clean floor.
I stood on the street corner, my hand still gripping the invisible weight of the pen. The air in Lagos felt different now. It was no longer the heavy, fake air of the recycle bin. It was real. I could taste the dust from the road and the sharp scent of exhaust fumes. It was messy, it was loud, and it was perfect.Bryan stood beside me, his eyes wide as he looked around. He touched his face, his arms, then the brick wall of the shop behind us."Is this it?" he asked. "Are we actually here?""We are," I said. My heart felt light, but I kept my guard up. The Architect was not the type to give up. If he wanted to play his game, he would have a plan B.I checked my pocket. The pen was still there. It felt smaller, less like a weapon and more like a tool. But as I pulled it ou
My fingers felt the cold metal of the pen in my pocket. It was not just an object; it felt like a weight, heavy with the lives of everyone I had ever known. I looked at Bryan. He was still staring at his hands, his face pale. He looked like he was waking up from a long, bad dream."Bryan, look at me," I said. My voice was steady. I had to be strong. If I showed fear now, we would both be gone.He lifted his eyes. They were wide and confused. "Hazel? Why does this feel so strange? It’s like I have memories of places I’ve never been. I remember dying. I remember fighting in cities that don't exist.""It’s because you were part of the story," I told him. "And so was I. But we are out now. We are standing in the real world."
The room felt small and hot. My father’s legs were disappearing, turning into thin white smoke right before my eyes. He didn't scream. He just looked at me with a look of deep sadness. The man in the white tuxedo, the Final Editor, held his silver eraser
The man in the suit stood there with a cold smile, holding the digital pen like a knife. My legs were fading. I could see the teenager’s messy bedroom floor through my shins. It felt like my very bones were turning into steam. Bryan was flickering next to me, his silver skin turning into gray smoke
The real Bryan was gone. Where my husband had stood, there was only a pile of white paper fluttering in the wind. I stared at the man who called himself the Author. He looked like Silas, but his eyes were a glowing, toxic green. He stood over me with a cold smile,
The sound of the gunshot was a sharp crack that echoed through the silent, ash-covered forest. Time seemed to slow down. I saw the muzzle flash. I saw the small, lead bullet tear through the air. My heart stopped. My scream was caught in my throat.






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