A young man stepped out of a convenience store, a thin nylon bag swinging lightly from his fingers. The hood of his sweatshirt shadowed his face as he walked down the street toward home.
James kept his eyes on the ground, counting his lonely steps in silence. One. Two. Three. The pavement felt heavier each night. He could feel eyes on him, or maybe that was just paranoia settling in again, but he did not bother to look up. It did not matter.
He slipped a hand into his hoodie pocket and pulled out his phone. The cracked screen lit up against the dark. An email notification sat at the top.
He already knew, but still, he opened it.
Another rejection.
He exhaled slowly, lips pressing into a thin line. The words blurred together, polite and empty. We regret to inform you… not a good fit… encourage you to keep trying. It felt worse than a high school crush rejection, at least that kind came with an answer.
He exited the mail and opened his webnovel app. His thumb hesitated for half a second before tapping on his book.
6 collections, 1 consistent reader, obviously him. No new comments, no new reviews, no nothing.
The same numbers that had been there yesterday. The same numbers that would probably be there tomorrow.
James stared at the screen as if staring longer would magically change it. His jaw tightened. He switched to the reading section and scrolled through dozens of successful books, their covers bright and proud on the weekly page.
Thousands of collections, hundreds of comments, readers arguing in the reviews, some complaining some appreciating and begging for more chapters like it's their life source.
He wondered what he had to do to get his book there. He had read so many novels on this app, studied them, learned their pacing, their hooks, their cliffhangers. He was creative. He was consistent. He followed the rules. Yet no one was willing to read his own.
His thumb slowed. His chest tightened.
Was he invisible? Was he meant to exist quietly in the corner of the world, unnoticed, unread, unremembered?
Notifications had become a cruel joke. Every time his phone buzzed, his heart jumped, hoping for a comment, a review, a single reader saying they loved his writing style.
Instead, it was always some bot advertisement telling him to check out another author's masterpiece, or saying your work has some potential, hit my dm to tell you what your miss.
So Annoying.
James released a long sigh and shoved the phone back into his hoodie pocket. His shoulders sagged as he continued walking through the dim street.
The neighborhood was alive in its own rough way. Laughter that did not sound friendly. Music blasting from somewhere unseen. Figures leaning against walls, trading things that were not groceries.
He bumped into someone.
A man of average height stood in front of him, dressed in clothes that screamed pickpocket before he even spoke. His eyes flicked down and back up again, quick.
James felt the absence in his pocket.
He did not even flinch.
"Instead of just taking my phone," James said quietly, staring at the man, "why do not you shoot me too?"
The man paused mid-step, turning slowly. The phone was already in his hand.
James stepped closer.
"That phone was the only thing I have left in my life," he continued, his voice steady but hollow. "So if you are taking it, take mine too."
The man squinted at him. "Are you drunk or something, man?" he muttered, inhaling sharply like someone used to cheap smoke and worse habits.
James laughed, but there was no humor in it.
"Why do not you bring out your gun and put a hole in my head? Since this world clearly does not want me in it." His voice rose, words spilling faster. "I have tried so hard to be somebody, but no one wants me. My imagination is not welcomed on this damn earth. It is not like I begged to be born anyway. I did not ask for this kind of life."
His hands trembled, but he did not stop.
"I found something I thought I could do for the rest of my messed up life, something that made sense to me, and even that rejects me. So if you are going to take my phone, kill me too."
The street seemed to grow quieter around them. The man stared at James as if he were looking at something unstable, something unpredictable.
"Here, man. Take it," he muttered, tossing the cracked phone back at him. "It is already broken anyway. Cracked phones are hard to sell these days."
He walked off quickly, glancing back once as if making sure James would not follow.
James caught the phone and held it tightly against his chest.
For a brief second, he wished the man had listened to him, had pulled a trigger, had ended it there. At least that would have been quick.
If there was a way to escape this life, to wake up somewhere else, somewhere people praised him for even the smallest thing he did, he would take it without hesitation. All he wanted was recognition. Someone to see his potential. Someone to give his book a chance.
Just one comment saying thank you for the chapter. Just one reader saying they loved his writing style.
He was not asking for fame. He was not even asking for love. Just recognition. He just wants to be somebody.
Maybe this world was not meant for him. Maybe he was a side character in someone else's story, written to struggle in the background and die quietly in a corner. He stepped off the curb. His mind was still wandering through those thoughts when headlights flooded his vision. There was no time to react. No dramatic realization. Just the violent sound of metal and impact.
For a split second, he saw fragments of his life flash past him. The late nights writing. The empty comment section. The rejection emails. The lonely walks. Then darkness swallowed everything. Gone. Bye bye and forgotten.
If one knew him in that world. And maybe, just maybe, he had been right. He was simply born into the wrong one.