Sleep didn't come that night.
Every time Mara closed her eyes, she saw them—the hero with tired eyes and clenched fists, the villain whose cruelty hid something broken, the love interest who had learned how to wait without hope.
By morning, exhaustion pushed her back to the laptop.
She opened it slowly, like it might explode.
The fanfic page was exactly where she'd left it. No new lines. No messages.
She almost laughed in relief.
"See?" she muttered. "I imagined it."
Then she scrolled.
There, between paragraphs, was a comment she didn't remember approving.
Author,
do you know what happens to characters when you stop writing?
No username. No timestamp.
Mara's throat tightened. She clicked reply before she could think.
Mara: Stories pause. They wait.
The reply appeared instantly.
No.
We keep living in the moment you left us.
Her hands trembled.
Mara: That's not possible.
The screen darkened, then reloaded—not to the website, but to a scene.
Rain. Mud. Steel clashing.
She wasn't reading anymore.
She was there.
The hero knelt in the dirt, blood soaking his sleeve. He looked up—not at his enemy, but straight at her.
"You always watched," he said quietly. "Why did you turn away now?"
"I was scared," Mara whispered.
The villain laughed bitterly. "Writers always are. That's why they make us suffer."
"Enough," the love interest snapped, eyes blazing. "She came back."
Mara felt something crack inside her chest.
"I don't know how to end it," she admitted. "What if I choose wrong?"
The hero stood, despite his wounds.
"Then write the choice," he said. "Not the outcome."
The world blurred.
Mara was back in her chair, tears on her cheeks, hands hovering over the keyboard.
The cursor blinked.
Waiting.
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