I sighed as I looked at the empty screen of my laptop, the cursor flickering like it was mocking my hesitation. The soft hum of the fan above me was the only sound in my room. Outside, the world moved on, unaware of the war brewing inside my head. I had come across this online forum where I could anonymously publish books and get reads. It had excited me at first. A chance to be heard. A place where I didn’t have to hide.
My previous story had gotten a decent number of views. Not viral or anything — just enough to make me feel seen. But now, starting a new one felt… heavy. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, frozen. I didn’t know what to write. The cruel laughter from the school hallways echoed in my head, and the hateful comments the bullies whispered about me still stung. It was as if they lived rent-free in my brain, poisoning my self-worth.
I wanted to let it all out — the anger, the pain, the loneliness — until an idea struck me.
“I wish the people who hurt me feel twice the pain.”
I typed.
Maybe this book could be my escape. My outlet. Maybe I could pour all my buried feelings into fiction — except, this wouldn't really be fiction, would it? It would be everything I ever wanted to say, every curse I was too scared to speak aloud. No one would know it was me. I’d use a fake name. No one would know that the quiet, awkward girl in the back of the class was the one who wrote these burning, venom-laced words.
I hit save, shut my laptop, and sighed. I had school tomorrow. A place I dreaded more than the dentist.
***
The next afternoon, I stood in front of my locker, eager to shove my books in and get the hell out. I was exhausted — emotionally, mentally, even physically. The weight of being invisible all day wore on me more than anything else. Just as I opened my locker, a small note fluttered out. I picked it up, frowning.
'Meet me in the math class in 5. - Jordan.'
My heart stopped.
Jordan.
The same Jordan I’d been crushing on since forever — charming, confident, and completely out of my league. Why would he ask to meet me? Was this some kind of prank?
I glanced around the hallway, feeling eyes on me, and caught sight of Jordan. He looked back and winked before disappearing into the math room. I blinked, dazed, a bubble of hope rising in my chest. I felt surreal. Excited. Nervous.
Maybe… maybe he actually liked me?
I shut my locker and walked toward the math room with shaking hands. I stepped inside, my breath held — only to find it empty.
Weird.
Then the door slammed shut behind me.
I spun around and ran to it, trying to yank it open. Locked.
Laughter exploded outside, voices chanting Jordan’s name, mocking me. My face turned cold. My heart sank.
It had been a setup.
I banged on the door, screamed for help, but the only reply was laughter fading down the hallway. Hours passed. The air felt thicker. My throat was dry. I sat against the wall, humiliated, heartbroken, and furious.
When the janitor finally found me and opened the door, I rushed out without saying a word. My face burned with embarrassment.
I went home, opened my laptop, and my fingers shook as I typed everything I felt. Every wound, every scream trapped in my chest spilled out.
“I wish he felt the same pain as I did. I wish he chokes on air and can’t breathe and suffers to the maximum.”
I hit save.
That night, after a rushed dinner, I collapsed into bed.
***
The next day in class, I was barely present. Girls behind me kept throwing pencils at my head, giggling. I didn’t react. I stared at the textbook like it was made of glass.
Suddenly, a boy from another class burst into the room. “Something happened to Jordan — come quick!” he yelled.
Everyone rushed out, including me.
There he was. Jordan. On the floor, gasping for air, clutching his chest. His eyes were wide, desperate. Nurses tried everything, but nothing worked. He choked until his eyes rolled back and the room fell silent.
I stood there, stunned. My heartbeat was deafening.
Back home, I ran into my room and opened my laptop, scrolling to last night’s entry.
I reread it.
Word for word — choking, gasping, unable to breathe.
“No way,” I whispered, my skin crawling. “This can’t be real.”
Just then, my mom entered with dinner, smiling gently. “Eat something, baby. You look pale.”
I nodded without a word. After she left, I turned to my screen. And there, beneath my last sentence, a word had appeared.
No.
I didn’t type it. I was sure of that. My blood ran cold. I slammed the laptop shut.
***
Days passed. I kept my distance from my laptop, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About Jordan. About the word.
That Friday, I stood outside Lila’s house, waiting for her. My neighbor. My best friend. My only friend. She always understood me.
She stepped out in a fancy dress and heels. I blinked. “Going somewhere?”
A honk came from behind us. I turned to see Kim — the queen bee of our school — sitting in her shiny car, her two sidekicks giggling beside her.
“I’m going to Kim’s party,” Lila said quickly. “She promised to introduce me to Karl. You know how much I like him. But she said I could only come if I stopped being friends with you. So… I’m sorry. We can’t be friends anymore.”
She said it all at once, like ripping off a bandage.
“What?” I whispered, stunned.
Before I could say anything else, she was gone — disappearing into Kim’s car like she’d never been mine to begin with.
I walked home, hollow and furious.
Back in my room, I opened my laptop and wrote until my fingers hurt.
“She was all I had. And she left me. I wish she ends up getting embarrassed and gets rejected by Karl.”
I hit save.
A notification pinged on my phone. I opened it.
Kim’s party was all over social media. People were laughing at Lila. In the video, Kim was reading pages from Lila’s private diary aloud — pages about Karl. Fantasies. Obsessions. Lila stood frozen, humiliated.
My laptop screen flickered.
New words typed themselves:
“I’ll never let anyone hurt you and get away with it. I promise.”
I stared, trembling.
And for the first time in my life, I smiled.
***
It became a cycle. Pain. Writing. Revenge.
Every time someone hurt me, I’d pour it into the story, and they’d suffer exactly as I described.
No police ever came. No one suspected me. It was my secret. My power.
But everything changed on a rainy afternoon.
I came home from the park, my clothes damp and shoes muddy. The air smelled of dust and wet earth.
I walked in and found Mom counting cash at the table.
“Where did this money come from?” I asked.
She looked up. “I sold your father’s necklace.”
My eyes widened. “You what?! That was the only thing I had of him since he passed away!”
“We needed money. I had to pay off some loans,” she said calmly.
“You’re cruel!” I screamed. “I hate you!”
I stormed into my room, my heart aching. That necklace had been mine. My dad’s memory.
Sobbing, I opened my laptop.
“I wish she never existed.” I typed, and hit save.
***
The next day, I woke up late — 5 p.m.
I yawned and walked out of my room.
“Mom?” I called.
Silence.
I checked the kitchen, the living room, her room. Nothing.
Panic gripped my chest.
No note. No text. No sign of her.
It hit me all at once.
I ran to my laptop and typed furiously.
“I wish I got my mom back.”
Nothing happened.
Again and again, I typed it. Begged.
Then the screen flickered.
And a word appeared.
“Sorry.”
I broke down in tears, hugging myself.
What had I done?
I tried to delete the file. I tried to throw the laptop away. But the screen stayed on, the document opened again on its own.
And then a new message appeared:
“Valeria, you’re stuck with me for life.”
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