The Story

Never mix fiction with reality.

A saying that holds one's sanity in place. A saying that tells you to be realistic. That hoping for nonsense would lead to nothing.

But it's hard, you know?

When faced with a reality harsher than fiction, a story where you are powerful and devoid of the problems you have seems like the best answer to your suffering. You must be strong, yet you are conflicted about whether fighting to be strong is even worth it when you can simply escape.

There's a very fine line between reality and fiction. Two things that are clearly opposite, yet somehow, they have the most in common with each other.

Like a sickening romance plot.

Regardless, there's still a fine line separating the two. A line that is quite confusing.

...

Fiction needs to make sense.

Fiction is delusion and imagination that one's complex mind procures. It's a reality that doesn't exist, yet somehow it makes sense. Making up a fiction that totally negates everything that is real like light, life, death, and even existence itself, simply doesn't exist.

Thus, it had to make sense.

And in turn, reality doesn't. It's real, after all. If it doesn't make sense, what can you even do? It happens, and it will happen.

The contrast between the two is such. One needs to make sense, while another doesn't.

It's confusing, I know. Even I don't get what any of these metaphorical sayings even imply. It's just some weird lines I saw on the internet while trying to add some quotes to an essay I wrote back in high school. You know, you need to make an impactful ending, which is what they teach you.

I don't get it. Or, to be clearer, I didn't get it.

At least before that fine line separating the two vanished.

…

It was a cold and chilly night. Heavy rain poured outside, blocking all the sound except the constant crashing of the raindrops. It was loud, yet somehow it felt as if it was so quiet that even the whirring of the air conditioner outside sounded like nothing. My small room felt like it was separated from the real world, but the random manuscripts and crumbled papers brought me back to what I had been allotting all my focus to for the past few years.

The only light source in my dark room, my laptop.

Click!

That should be done. It's been about two years of constant work, but I finally managed to finish my novel.

"Incarnation of Will. "

A novel that I had been writing and planning for about two years. It's a fantasy world that centers around four characters. It's a fantasy story, filled with twists and turns, that I had to give some of the biggest cheats to my characters just for them to survive properly.

Although it still needs some rough tuning, I can't help but feel satisfied as I look upon the past things I've done to reach this part.

It's not like this is the first time I look forward to the fruits of my labor, but I can't help but feel proud.

How many years has it been? Since I had to sustain myself,

It was when I was 16, was it? The time when I had to do everything to pass by. I've tried following in my dad's footsteps to be a magician, but it just doesn't pay well, so I also tried modeling, a 9-to-5 office job, professional fighting, and even delivery. A lot of things happened in the span of a little more than ten years. I still do a lot of jobs as a sideline, and now I'm just writing as a hobby.

I have quite an imaginative mind; since I was young, my dad used to be the one who listened to my stories instead of the other way around. He said that I should be a writer with such a mind, but I always scoff at it as something playful.

Tsk...

I'm sad, yes, but I've been sad for a long time already. I should be happy; I've finally done what I've been wanting to do all my life.

It seems like I haven't paid much attention to the passing of time. It was only when the rain calmed down that I noticed the quick yet consistent noise of the clock hanging behind me.

It's four in the morning already...

Should I get some rest?

I have to go to the publishing company early tomorrow, or, I guess, later today. Later today is in a few hours, at eight.

Damn, I didn't feel any fatigue as I was writing all night, but it seems like I was just too immersed. I'm starting to feel drowsy already.

I might feel even worse if I decided to go to sleep now and wake up with four hours of sleep. While remembering the facts, I searched back to when I was pulling all-nighters to prepare for an exam at school. I decided to get some rest. It said that reviewing for a bit and having sleep is better than studying all night and mastering the subject.

"I want to write more."

I couldn't help but chuckle for some reason, though. Why was I so excited about this?

What can I say? I'm proud of this novel, even though I am an absolute beginner with no background whatsoever.

Anyway, after saving all my work and making at least five backups in different folders, I stood up from my wooden chair, freeing up the pressure on my buttocks.

I couldn't help but stretch for a bit as a wave of relief passed through my body.

" Ugh.

I wanted to clean up a little, but my body was a lot more tired than I had thought. The thick white sheet on top of my mattress looked as if it were a bed in a five-star hotel. Without a single thought in my mind, I just mindlessly laid down and covered myself with my cold yet comfortable blankets.

I don't know if it's just the rain that made lying on that bed so comfortable, but I already felt sleepy the moment I laid down.

Though it felt like I could sleep at any second, my mind had been drifting to some concerns that I didn't want to dwell that much on.

"Shit…"

I couldn't help but blurt it out.

Will this feed me?

All my life, I've been doing jobs that pay well, regardless of the work. I've done multiple things that helped sustain myself and grew competent enough that I could aim for a stable job that will feed me for years to come, yet here I am writing a story because I've always wanted to. Will hobbies feed you? I enjoy it, but then what?

How do I even know if this will work out? Why was I trying to act like I could do it when all I had was my father's compliment about my imagination? But so what? I didn't learn how to write or how to form a good plot.

Face failure and drink a few bottles of beer? Since when did that become a routine?...

As much as I loved doing it, this is probably going to be the last. Let's be realistic here.

…

I need to calm down and prepare myself. I don't want to fall into that loop again.

I'm turning 27 this year, and I can't waste my time trying to sort out my life any longer. I turn towards my laptop one more time, wondering about what will happen tomorrow. Will I be able to continue writing? Will my life turn around for the better?

As the rain continued to pour throughout the night, such thoughts filled my head before I succumbed to drowsiness.

…

That was the last time I remember ever sleeping in that room.

...

It felt like just a few minutes later, the bright ray of the sun had entered my room, lighting the entire place up as if it just hadn't rained a few hours ago.

"Urgh..." I couldn't help but moan in fatigue as the constant work had finally caught up to me.

With my eyes still closed shut, I sat up from my mattress.

I took a step to the floor before stretching my entire body.

Creak…

As I quickly stretched my back, a soft creak escaped the floor from where I was stepping. It was so soft that a normal person wouldn't pay it any heed.

Floors creak, and that's that. Well, if they're wooden, yeah.

If I'm not crazy, I have a cement floor.

And why could I step down from my mattress? It's not like it's a bed. I placed my mattress down on the floor, and I slept like that for the last few years.

Wait, my alarm?! Did I oversleep? I knew I shouldn't have slept.

My mind wasn't clear yet going forward from this, so I was still doubting if what I was experiencing was real.

Well, that was before I opened my eyes. As I do so, the room that I have been living in for 10 years has become completely different.

What the hell is going on?