They say heartbreak builds character. That pain is a teacher.
Well, then I must be the most educated creature in existence.
Perhaps I should be giving lectures—on how to be the perpetual afterthought. The backup plan. The unwanted twin. The prince they'd rather forget.
Let's not dance around it—suicide. Shall we speak plainly?
It's not about dying. Please. Death is easy.
It's about quitting. Stepping off the stage mid-monologue. It's about choosing silence in a world that mocks your every line.
It's not a plea for help. It's the final act in a play where the audience never clapped.
And yet... isn't there something deliciously tragic about despair? Isn't there?
A twisted romance in being broken by something as fragile as hope.
Because if pain can echo through your bones like this—doesn't that mean joy might roar even louder, someday?
They'll tell you you're being dramatic. That there are plenty of fish in the sea.
But maybe I wasn't fishing.
Maybe... I was drowning.
And she looked like the shore.
Maybe her smile felt like home, and when she turned away—it felt like exile.
But don't mistake this for a cry. I don't want saving. I don't want comfort.
I just want you to understand:
Even gods break. Even tricksters bleed.
And even I... have stood at the edge of the abyss and whispered: "Not today."
So laugh, if you must. Call me dramatic.
But if I'm going to be miserable, I'll make damn sure it's worth remembering.
And just like that... I drowned.
Not in water—but in silence, thick and absolute.
The kind of silence that follows a world-ending boom.
You see, I didn't just die. No, no, darling—I brought the whole curtain down with me.
Triggered every nuke like a conductor cuing a symphony...Mushroom clouds blooming like flowers—my final bouquet to humanity...
Call it revenge. Call it madness. Call it art.
But don't call it mercy. I knew exactly what I was doing.
And when the fire faded… when the screams turned to ash… and the world lay still—
Only then did I let go.
Blackness swallowed me whole.
And when I opened my eyes…
The stars were watching me.
Or rather—she was.
She sat on a throne carved from galaxies, white hair tumbling like comet trails, her eyes a whirl of cosmic storms and dying suns.
A goddess, if such things exist.
Mischief curled at the corners of her lips like a secret dying to be told.
"Well, well," she said, voice like velvet wrapped around a knife. "Another one who thought the story was over."