The exhaustion didn't arrive all at once.
It crept in quietly, disguised as dedication.
By the fifth straight day of updates, he could no longer remember when he'd last slept properly. Coffee cups gathered on the desk like trophies of endurance, each one cold before it was finished. His eyes burned, fingers stiff from hours of typing that no longer felt like creation—but obligation.
The numbers kept rising.
Views: 9,842Followers: 1,037
The platform loved him.
The readers loved him.
His body did not.
He refreshed the rankings page again, even though he'd promised himself he wouldn't.
Trending: #6
A week ago, he would have celebrated. Now, the number felt like a weight pressing down on his chest.
Every chapter release came with the same flood of reactions.
"More updates please!""Can you do longer chapters?""Daily updates or I'm dropping.""This is good, but you should add more drama."
Add more drama.
Add more conflict.
Add what works.
He stared at the comments, jaw tightening. They weren't cruel. Most were encouraging. But encouragement had sharp edges when it came with expectations.
He clicked into the Popular section.
CEO romances.Rebirth revenge stories.System-leveling fantasies.
Titles screamed confidence. Certainty. Formulas proven to succeed.
He clicked one at random.
The opening was clean. Efficient. Familiar.
It wasn't bad.
It was safe.
His fingers hovered over his keyboard as an idea slithered in—quiet, reasonable, dangerous.
You could do this too.
Change the direction. Add a twist. A system. A tragic past reveal. Something trending. Something predictable enough to keep readers hooked.
The story would grow faster.
The numbers would climb higher.
And no one would blame him.
He opened his outline file and stared at the empty sections he'd left vague on purpose. Spaces where discovery was supposed to happen naturally.
His cursor moved.
Paused.
He imagined the story transforming—becoming louder, sharper, easier to sell. He imagined comments filled with praise, rankings rising effortlessly.
And then he imagined rereading it months later.
Feeling nothing.
His chest tightened.
"When did this stop being mine?" he whispered.
His phone buzzed.
A private message from the platform.
Congratulations! You're eligible for a Featured Promotion.Requirement: Maintain daily updates and align content with reader preferences.
Reader preferences.
The phrase echoed unpleasantly.
He closed the message without replying.
The room felt smaller than before. The desk cluttered. The air stale. Writing, once a refuge, had turned into a countdown—hours until the next update, minutes until disappointment.
He rubbed his temples and leaned back, eyes closed.
I just need to push through, he told himself.
That's what everyone said.
Burnout wasn't dramatic. It didn't announce itself. It hollowed you out slowly until even success felt dull.
When he opened his eyes again, the blank page of the next chapter stared back at him.
Waiting.
But this time, the cursor didn't blink patiently.
It blinked urgently.
He placed his hands on the keyboard.
Nothing came.
For the first time since the story began, he had nothing honest to say.
Outside, the city glowed with possibility.
Inside, he wondered whether chasing the million eyes meant losing the one that had written the story in the first place.