Short note: The MC has an acute narcissistic nature.
Delete.
That is the fate of all the criticism directed at my novel. Of course, this isn't because I don't accept suggestions and criticism, okay?
It's just that their criticism is wrong and... umm, it ruins the scenery of my novel which I think is very perfect but they just don't understand.
For example:
[Daoist_19: Alright, I'm dropping this Novel here. The MC is too OP and has an insanely thick, unrealistic plot armor.]
So what if the MC is OP? If you don't like it, then don't read it.
[Delete]
[Saintnites: Absolutely bad writing, like it was written by a sixteen-year-old kid. Come on Author, I suggest you read some other novels to learn.]
"For your information, I am actually sixteen years old!"
[Delete]
[Trenat145: How can this novel get a rating of 5?]
[Delete]
[Delete]
Even after nearly dozens of comments and reviews that I have deleted, they are still numerous, drowning out my old positive reviews.
'It's not possible, right? The novel I created is certainly perfect...'
Every time I read the criticism before deleting it, my chest feels tight and it keeps piling up until finally...
"Alright, I'm quitting writing!"
I slammed my desk and closed my laptop hard, not caring if it breaks or not. Well, if it breaks, I'll just ask my parents to buy a new one.
I don't care about that criticism, they just don't understand anything, right? Yes, exactly!
...But even though I think that way, the tightness in my chest can't be denied.
After thinking about it, the MC really is too OP and--
No, no.
Yes, I know the MC is OP. But I did it on purpose, if they don't like it, it's better not to read it. Why do they have to criticize me like that?
I grab my face with both hands, my fingers pressing into it unconsciously.
Why does it always have to be like this?
I took a deep breath. Exhale. Inhale again. Exhale again. A technique a psychologist once taught me when Mom and Dad decided to get a divorce but called it off because Dad bought Mom a new car. That psychologist said, "Breathe, Keita. When you're angry, breathe. When you're sad, breathe. When you feel alone, breathe."
Funny.
They tell me to breathe, but the parents who should be there when I need them? They choose to be busy with their own lives instead.
I sat still. The laptop screen was off, reflecting my own face. Sharp nose, defined eyebrows, eyes that could always be described as piercing but now... now they looked empty.
Maybe I'm tired.
Or maybe... no. I'm not allowed to be tired. I'm Keita. A rich kid. Someone who can do anything. Someone who always gets everything. Just because of some cheap criticism from random nobodies, I'm supposed to feel tired?
I opened the laptop again. Forced myself. Pressed the power button.
I stared at the loading screen with an empty gaze.
My mind began to wander. Not just anywhere. But to the past. To those big rooms in a house that was almost always empty.
---
Back when I was eight, I once drew a picture. A landscape. Mountains, rice fields, the sun. It was ordinary, like any elementary school kid's drawing. But I was so proud of it. I put it on the refrigerator, hoping Mom would see it when she opened the fridge to get drinking water.
A week later, that drawing was still in the same spot.
I don't know if Mom saw it or not. What I do know is that not a single word came out of her mouth about that drawing.
When I was twelve, I won a city-level math olympiad. I put the trophy on the dining table. So that when Dad came home late and ate dinner alone, he would see it.
The next day, the maid had already moved the trophy to my room. She said, "I'm sorry, young sir. Ma'am said not to put it on the dining table, it's hard to place the plates."
When I was fifteen, I wrote my first short story. A story about an orphan who finally gets adopted by a wealthy family. Mom read it. Dad read it—after the maid nagged them to. They said, "It's good, Son."
Two words.
Three years later, I just realized: they never finished reading it.
---
So now, after all these years, I'm sitting here. Surrounded by luxury facilities. My own room the size of most people's houses. A closet full of branded clothes. Two cars in the garage (one under Dad's name, one under Mom's name, none under mine yet because I'm still in college, they say). Unlimited allowance. I can buy anything, anytime.
But why is something missing?
Why is my chest still tight?
And why can people on the internet—people who don't know me, who don't know my life—make me feel worse than my own parents ever could?
Maybe because they speak the truth.
While the people around me... they're paid.
The maids, the driver, the security guards, even those campus friends who always ask to hang out—they're all paid. Directly or indirectly. Whether it's in the form of free meals, rides in my luxury car, or just "knowing a rich kid".
No one ever said, "Hey, you're wrong."
No one ever said, "Your work is bad."
Until the internet spoke.
And I wasn't ready.
---
But I'm still not going to admit they're right.
"OP MC? So what? What's the problem?"
My own voice echoed in the spacious room.
"I intentionally made him OP, so readers would be satisfied. So they could see that there's justice in fiction, unlike the real world full of busy parents and neglected kids."
Wait.
Why did I just say that?
I scratched my head. My hair was messy. A mess.
"Whatever."
I opened the novel folder. Right-click. Delete. Confirm.
Swhoosh.
Gone.
There. Done.
No more novel. No more criticism. No more heartache.
But why is my chest still tight?
---
The clock showed eleven at night.
Outside, the rain started to fall. Shibuya, yet again flooded with information on timelines. I opened social media, saw people busy cursing the government, busy debating politics, busy discussing cheating celebrities. Everyone's busy. Busy with their own worlds.
I'm busy too.
Busy hating those who didn't like my work.
But maybe... maybe I'm actually busy hating myself.
I quickly got up. Grabbed my jacket. Grabbed my motorcycle keys.
"What did I just say? Hating myself? Nonsense."
I don't hate myself. I'm great. I'm perfect. I'm Keita Kagayama.
The mistake is theirs. They're the ones who don't understand art. They're the ones who don't get the vision. They're the ones who like to judge even though they don't know anything.
I left my room. Went down the stairs. The house lights were off except for a few. The maids were already sleeping in the back. The security guard was probably playing on his phone at the front post.
Quiet.
This big house is always quiet.
As usual.
---
I sped the motorcycle out of the gate. The rain was getting heavier. But it's okay. Let it soak me. Maybe the rain can wash away whatever's dirty inside.
At a red light, I stopped.
No.
I didn't stop.
I kept going. What are red lights for? What are speed bumps for? What are traffic signs for?
I'm on an expensive motorcycle, on a slippery road, in the middle of the rain, in the dead of night. And I don't care.
My mind is chaotic. My feelings are all mixed up. There's only one thing in my head:
Why don't they like it?
Why don't they understand?
Why... why did my parents never say they love me?
BRAAAK!
Not the sound of a truck. Not the sound of brakes. Not any sound I've ever heard before.
This sound was louder than anything.
It was the sound of my body being thrown, asphalt meeting me, bones that might be broken, blood that might be spilling, and light—white light suddenly appearing everywhere.
Before everything went dark, I heard people screaming. Far away. Faint.
Maybe the truck driver.
Maybe passersby.
Maybe...
Maybe it doesn't matter.