I didn’t know I was a character.
Not until the words started disappearing.
It began slowly, like the world was slipping out of sync.
The first thing I noticed was my favorite mug. A simple white ceramic cup with a small chip near the handle, the kind of thing you'd never misplace because of the memories attached to it. Gone. Not broken, not borrowed—just… gone.
Then the mail stopped coming. Not late—missing. No bills, no flyers, no junk.
My neighbor—Mr. Collins—who waved every morning and once helped me fix my broken front step, looked through me like I was air. When I called his name, he smiled politely but said, “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
I thought I was losing my mind. Until the mirror blinked.
I had been brushing my teeth, sleep still heavy in my bones. I leaned forward to wipe condensation off the mirror. That’s when it happened.
My reflection blinked.
But I hadn’t.
That night, I began writing things down. Small, stupid things—like what I wore to bed or the smell of burnt toast from the kitchen. My handwriting trembled on the page. I remember thinking if I documented everything, I could prove it happened.
I bought a leather-bound journal. The kind that made you feel important for just holding it.
On the first page, I wrote:
“My name is Rhea Morgan. I am real.”
The next morning, my birth certificate was gone.
I tore through drawers, checked old files, even called the city hall. “Rhea Morgan?” the clerk asked. “There’s no record of anyone by that name born in this state.”
I called my mother.
She picked up. But her voice was warped. Distorted. Like a vinyl record being chewed through by static.
I asked, “Mom?”
Silence.
Then—click.
I stared at my phone, heart thudding.
My bank account? Closed. Deactivated.
When I went to the bank in person, they asked me for ID. I showed them my driver’s license.
They told me it was fake.
In desperation, I ran to the one place that had always felt untouched by time—unchanged, anchored. The old library on Sycamore Street.
It had been my refuge as a child. When the world felt too loud or uncertain, I’d curl up in its hidden corners, inhale the musty scent of forgotten pages, and escape. I hadn't been there in years, but my feet knew the path instinctively.
The library was deserted.
Dimly lit. Dust hanging like fine webs in the air.
And yet… everything felt right.
I drifted through the aisles until I reached the oldest section. Books that hadn’t been borrowed in decades. As I passed my fingers over the spines, one book caught my eye.
It had no title. No author.
Thicker than the rest.
Almost humming.
Drawn to it like a moth to flame, I pulled it down.
It was heavy. Worn. Bound in black leather, frayed at the edges.
I opened it.
The pages weren’t blank. They were filled with me.
Verbatim conversations I’d had. Dreams I barely remembered until I saw them written out. Childhood memories. The look on my face the night my dog died. A whisper I once muttered under my breath in a moment of doubt.
It was a biography, but it was still being written. The ink shimmered faintly as if freshly laid. I flipped to the very last page.
“On April 4th, at 11:47 p.m., Rhea discovers the truth—
that she was never the author. Just the narrative.”
I looked at my phone.
11:46 p.m.
My breath caught. My fingers trembled.
I stood paralyzed, staring at the words.
Then I heard it.
A soft creak. Wood groaning under weight.
Someone was behind me.
I turned.
He looked like me.
Not a perfect copy—older, drained, as if someone had squeezed every color out of my reflection. His hair was darker. His eyes hollow. But the structure, the bones, even the scar on the left wrist—it was me.
“You weren’t supposed to read that yet,” he said calmly.
My voice barely came out. “Who are you?”
“I’m the Writer,” he said. “The original version of you.”
His eyes studied me like a parent inspecting a broken toy.
“I created Rhea to live out the life I couldn’t. A character. A better version. Smarter. Braver. Freer. You were never meant to question it.”
I clenched the book against my chest.
“If I’m just a character,” I asked, “why let me find this?”
He tilted his head, a sad smile curling at his lips. “Curiosity. I wanted to see what happens when the narrative looks back. What happens when the character finds the pen.”
From his coat, he pulled out a fountain pen.
It gleamed. Not gold, not silver—ink. Liquid, living ink.
“You could end this,” he whispered. “Take it. Try.”
Something inside me moved. A hum I’d never heard but always felt.
I reached out and snatched it before he could react.
The second it touched my skin, everything shifted.
The library around me cracked. The air folded. Time bent.
I could feel the words around me—the ones I had lived. The ones I hadn’t. Unwritten sentences. Choices. Backspaces. They pulsed like veins in the walls.
I could see them now. Threads. Chapters. Deleted scenes.
He lunged at me.
But I had already written it.
“The Writer vanishes into the story he feared.”
He stopped mid-stride.
His eyes widened in betrayal. Then—he melted. Not like wax. But like ink. Ink that bled down his coat, to his shoes, until nothing remained but a smear on the floor.
Silence.
Then—stillness.
I stood alone in the library.
No longer a character.
No longer someone else's idea.
No longer written.
I walked back to the desk and opened the book again.
This time, the pages were blank.
I took a deep breath and wrote:
“My name is Rhea Morgan. I am the author now.”
And the world... shifted.
The lights brightened. The scent of dust cleared. Outside, I heard birds—daylight returning.
For the first time, it felt like the world was real.
Because I was the one writing it.
One Year Later
A boy sat at a writing desk in his bedroom. His name was Callum. Thirteen. Bright. Imaginative. Shy. He loved books more than people.
That morning, a mysterious package arrived.
No return address.
Inside: A worn leather journal.
On the first page: a sentence written in delicate, bold handwriting.
“Now it’s your turn. Pick up the pen.”
Callum picked it up. His fingers tingled.
And in the distance, a pair of eyes—watching through the ink—smiled.
Because stories don’t end.
They pass on.
