It was the beginning of autumn, the air just starting to carry the crisp promise of change, when I happened upon a novel titled The Crown Prince and His Wife. That day, like many others, I made my way into the company cafeteria. The room buzzed with the usual clatter of trays and low conversation, but my eyes were drawn—inevitably—to that one table by the window.
Golden sunlight spilled across its surface, warm and unfiltered, casting gentle shadows that danced with the shifting leaves outside. Most of my colleagues avoided it. They whispered half-joking excuses—too much sun might damage their skin, or there weren't enough seats for their groups. But I never minded.
That table, bathed in sunlight, always felt like a quiet invitation just for me. While others sought shade and company, I found comfort in solitude and light. The sunlight on my skin was a small, wordless reassurance—soft, warm, and oddly grounding.
I've never been the kind of person surrounded by friends, certainly not outside of work. Solitude has always suited me just fine. That day, as usual, I sat alone at my favorite sunlit table, half-lost in thought, when a burst of laughter cut through the low hum of the cafeteria.
"That was an amazing novel," a girl said, her voice rising above the rest.
"It is," another chimed in quickly, her eyes alight. "Especially the part when the crown prince saves his wife—so romantic."
A third girl, mid-bite of her lunch, looked up. "What are you two talking about?"
"The novel The Crown Prince and His Wife," the first replied with enthusiasm.
Something about the way they spoke tugged at me. I've always had a soft spot for romance, though it's not something I readily admit. There's a certain magic in the idea of being chosen, of being saved, even if only in fiction.
I finished the last bite of my lunch, the warm sunlight still touching my skin. Twenty minutes remained before I had to be back at my desk, but instead of lingering, I stood and gathered my tray. For some reason, I felt the pull of work a little earlier than usual—perhaps to shake the echo of those words lingering in my mind.
I finished my work earlier than expected that day. The sky outside had shifted into a soft, golden hue, and the city buzzed with its usual weekday rhythm—cars weaving through traffic, voices echoing from open shopfronts, the occasional bark of a dog or a laugh from a passerby. With time to spare and no desire to head home just yet, I wandered through the streets without a particular destination in mind.
That's when I saw it—a modest little bookstore tucked between a café and a florist, almost hidden in plain sight. Something about it made me stop. And then I remembered the girls at lunch, their excited voices, the title spoken with such affection. The Crown Prince and His Wife.
Curious now, I stepped inside. The soft chime of the bell above the door greeted me, and the scent of old paper and binding glue wrapped around me like a memory. Rows of shelves stretched out before me, quietly whispering secrets to anyone willing to listen.
To my delight, I found it—the very novel they'd been talking about. Its cover was a deep blue, embossed with silver letters that caught the light as I turned it in my hands. Without hesitation, I brought it to the counter. The cashier, a man with kind eyes and a gentle smile, looked at me as though he recognized something familiar in me, though we'd never met.
"Good choice," he said softly, as if the book and I belonged to each other. I offered a small smile in return, paid, and slipped back into the afternoon light with the book in hand.
I glanced at my watch—2:30 p.m. Still too early to go home. The day felt like it was offering me something, and I wasn't ready to close the door on it just yet.
A few blocks down, I found a small park nestled between apartment buildings and city trees. A single bench sat beneath a streetlamp, its light unlit for now, but ready for when dusk would fall. I took a seat, the book resting in my lap like a secret waiting to be opened.
And there, in the soft hum of the city, with the leaves rustling overhead and the smell of autumn in the air, I turned to the first page.
I finished the entire book. Every page. Every word. And I hated it.
I stared at the closing line in disbelief, the final sentence hanging in the air like an insult. That was what those girls at lunch had swooned over? The male lead was unbearable—controlling, arrogant—and the female protagonist? Passive, naive, romanticizing misery like it was a virtue. I wanted to scream.
Frustrated, I pulled out my phone and began searching online, needing to know I wasn't the only one. Surely someone else must have felt the same. But every review I found sang praises—five stars, glowing comments, fan theories. It was as if the entire world had read a completely different story.
Then I noticed something strange. No interviews. No photos. No history. Just the author's name, and even that felt… vague. As though the writer had vanished, or maybe had never been real at all.
I checked my watch. 9:00 p.m.
I stood up, the cold from the bench clinging to the back of my legs, and started walking. The streets were quieter now, painted in the dull orange of streetlamps. My thoughts raced, a swirl of disappointment, confusion, and a growing unease I couldn't name.
By the time I reached my apartment building, the familiar tightness had already begun to return in my chest. I opened the door, and chaos met me.
A crash. A sharp pain. A bottle—beer, half full, smashed against my forehead.
The world tilted.
Blood poured down my face, warm and sticky, blurring my vision. My knees buckled, and I caught myself on the wall.
A scream rang out. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" my mother's voice—torn, panicked, cracking like glass.
Behind her, my father stood, eyes wild, chest heaving. "Where the hell were you?" he bellowed, stumbling forward, another bottle clutched in his hand.
"Stop! She's bleeding!" my mother cried, trying to wrestle it away from him. But I knew how this would go. I'd seen it all before.
I didn't say a word. I didn't even flinch. I simply got up—blood still dripping from my brow—and walked toward my room as if this, too, were just part of the routine.
This was normal. For me.
My father was always like this. The rage. The drinking. The apologies that came the next morning, like clockwork hollow and worthless. My mother and I—trapped in his storm.
They fought about everything, but especially about men. If she so much as spoke to another man, the fury would boil over, and I—I—always I—was pulled into it.
I could leave, maybe. I could run. But I knew what would happen if I did. He would turn on her instead.
So I stayed. I took the beatings. Not because I was brave. Not because I was strong. But because the thought of him hurting her instead was worse.
I closed the door to my room behind me, quietly, carefully—like shutting a lid on something volatile. I didn't bother cleaning the blood. It would dry. It always did.
To the outside world, my father was just a man who was overly protective of his wife. The kind of man neighbors nodded to, who held doors open, who smiled just enough to seem harmless. They didn't see what happened when the door closed, when the smiles dropped, and the monster underneath surfaced.
I tried once, when I was a teenager, to tell someone. To call the police. I remember the shaking in my voice, the fear. But no one believed me. Not really. And when someone finally did… he changed. Instantly. Like flipping a switch.
He played the part of the perfect father so well, even I started to doubt myself. Suddenly, he was bringing home gifts, asking about my grades, calling me "sweetheart" in front of officers who nodded and smiled like everything was fine. Like, I was the problem. And when they left, when the door closed again, so did that performance.
Since then, I stopped trying. Some prisons don't need bars to keep you inside.
So I stayed silent. I stayed in this house. I took the hits that might have been meant for her.
Because if I didn't… who else would?
Sleep wouldn't come. The throbbing pain in my head pulsed beneath the bandage, dull but persistent, like a reminder that even in the quiet, something was broken. It was well past midnight, and the house had finally fallen silent—no more shouting, no more crashing glass, just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant ticking of the hallway clock.
I slipped out of the house without a sound. Sometimes, you just need air. Real air. The kind that doesn't feel pressed down by walls soaked in rage.
The city, once loud and restless, now breathed in stillness. The streets were empty, washed in silver light from streetlamps and the faint glow of stars behind drifting clouds. As I wandered, my eyes caught on a tall building I'd never really noticed before. It wasn't new or shiny—just quietly standing there, overlooking the city. Something about it drew me in.
I entered through an unlocked side door and climbed the stairs. Floor after floor, each step like a question, each landing a pause. When I finally pushed open the heavy door to the rooftop, the world opened up around me.
The view was stunning. The city spread out like a sleeping giant, lights twinkling like stars scattered across the ground. For a moment, I forgot everything—my bruises, the noise, the ache in my chest.
Then a voice broke the silence, low and calm.
"A spirit that lost its way is soon found."
Startled, I turned quickly, stepping back. A man stood near the railing, bathed in moonlight, his expression unreadable. It took me a second to recognize him—the cashier from the bookstore.
"The book," he said, casually resting his arms on the railing. "How was it?"
"Terrible," I replied without hesitation, my voice colder than I intended.
To my surprise, he smiled. "I'm glad."
"What? But you—" I stopped mid-sentence, the realization clicking into place. He hated it too.
"I'm glad someone else saw through it. It's awful," I said, and a laugh escaped my throat—sudden, strange, almost healing.
"You look awful yourself," he said, motioning to the bandage on my head.
"Yeah," I laughed again, softer this time. "Long story."
We stood there, leaning against the railing, watching the city blink beneath us like it was waiting for something. We talked about nothing, about everything. About books that disappoint, and lives that hurt more than fiction ever dares to.
Then, after a long pause, he turned to me with a different look in his eyes. Gentle. Serious.
"Do you want to disappear from this life?"