Chapter 1: The Girl Who Was Never Chosen
My name is Camilla.
It’s a simple name. Easy to say, easy to forget. The kind of name that doesn’t linger in people’s minds for too long, much like the person who carries it. If you asked anyone who knew me to describe me, they would probably hesitate—not because I was mysterious or hard to understand, but because there was nothing remarkable enough to remember. I was there, and yet not really. Present, but never important. The kind of existence that quietly fills space without ever changing it.
I used to think that if I tried hard enough, I could change that.
When I was younger, I believed that people became important because they did something—because they were kind, or funny, or interesting, or strong. So I tried to be all of those things, even when it didn’t come naturally to me. I laughed when others laughed, even if I didn’t understand the joke. I listened carefully, remembering small details about people so I could bring them up later, hoping it would make them feel cared for. I offered help before anyone asked, stayed a little longer when someone needed company, gave a little more of myself each time I thought it might make a difference.
But no matter how much I tried, it always felt like I was reaching for something just out of my grasp.
Conversations would move on without me, as if I had never spoken in the first place. People would turn to others for comfort even when I stood right beside them. Plans would be made right in front of me, names exchanged, times decided—and mine would never be mentioned. At first, I thought it was accidental. That maybe I needed to try harder, speak louder, smile more.
So I did.
And still, nothing changed.
There’s a particular kind of realization that doesn’t come all at once, but settles slowly into your bones like a quiet, inescapable truth. It’s not dramatic. It doesn’t break you in a single moment. Instead, it wears you down, little by little, until one day you wake up and understand something you can never unlearn.
For me, that realization was this:
I was not someone people chose.
Not first. Not second. Not even as a last resort. If there was someone else, anyone else, they would always be preferred over me. It didn’t matter how kind I tried to be, or how much I gave, or how quietly I endured being overlooked. In the end, I was always the easiest to leave behind.
It wasn’t anyone’s fault.
That was the hardest part to accept.
No one was deliberately cruel. No one pointed at me and said, “You don’t matter.” There were no harsh words, no outright rejection that I could fight against or prove wrong. Just small, consistent acts of indifference that built up over time until they became impossible to ignore.
At home, I learned to sit through meals where conversations flowed around me like I was a piece of furniture. If I spoke, there would be a brief pause—just long enough to acknowledge that I had said something—before the topic shifted without anyone responding. Eventually, I stopped trying to join in at all, focusing instead on my plate, counting the minutes until I could quietly return to my room.
At school, it was much the same. I wasn’t bullied. I wasn’t disliked. I simply… existed on the edges of everything. I had acquaintances, but no one I could truly call a friend. I sat beside people, walked behind them, listened to them talk about their lives as if I were an audience rather than a participant.
And over time, I became used to it.
Humans are adaptable like that. We learn how to survive even in emotional environments that should, by all means, break us. I learned how to expect less, how to hope less, how to make myself smaller so the disappointment wouldn’t hurt as much.
Eventually, I stopped trying altogether.
It wasn’t a conscious decision. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to give up on being seen. It just… happened. Like a candle slowly burning out, the effort faded until there was nothing left but a quiet, steady emptiness.
My world shrank after that.
Not physically—I still went to school, still ate meals with my family, still existed in the same spaces as everyone else. But emotionally, everything pulled inward until there was only one place where I felt any sense of comfort.
My room.
It was small, plain, and unremarkable, but it was the only place where I didn’t feel like I had to pretend. The only place where the silence wasn’t filled with the weight of being ignored, but instead felt… neutral. Safe, in its own quiet way.
That was where I found stories.
At first, it was nothing special. Just something to pass the time. I would scroll through pages on my phone or read random novels online without much thought, letting the words fill the empty hours that stretched endlessly before me. It was a distraction, nothing more.
But slowly, almost without realizing it, those stories became something else.
They became a refuge.
In those fictional worlds, people felt things in a way that seemed so vivid, so real, that it almost hurt to witness. Characters loved each other with a depth that made their bonds feel unbreakable. They fought, they cried, they sacrificed, but no matter how much pain they went through, they were never truly alone.
Someone always stayed.
Someone always chose them.
It was a simple thing, really. Something so basic that most people probably took it for granted. But to me, it felt like something extraordinary—something almost impossible.
And so, I kept reading.
One story turned into dozens. Dozens turned into hundreds. Days blurred into nights as I lost myself in endless narratives, chasing that feeling over and over again. I didn’t need to be part of those worlds. It was enough just to watch, to witness characters who mattered to each other in ways I had never experienced.
Until I found that story.
It didn’t stand out at first.
If anything, it seemed painfully ordinary. A familiar setting, a predictable plot, a kind and beautiful heroine surrounded by people who loved and supported her. There was a heroic male lead, of course—strong, dependable, everything one would expect. Together, they faced challenges, overcame obstacles, and moved steadily toward a happy ending.
I had read stories like it countless times before.
I almost skipped it.
But then… he appeared.
The villain.
From the moment he was introduced, the tone of the story shifted. There was no attempt to make him appealing, no hidden charm meant to soften his image. He was cold, distant, and undeniably dangerous—a figure wrapped in darkness, standing in direct opposition to everything the story wanted the reader to support.
He was meant to be hated.
And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to hate him.
Because beneath all the cruelty, there was something else.
Something quiet.
Something deeply, painfully familiar.
It wasn’t something the story explicitly acknowledged. There were no tragic monologues or emotional revelations meant to make readers sympathize with him. In fact, the narrative went out of its way to paint him as irredeemable, to justify every harsh judgment made against him.
But there were small details.
Tiny, almost imperceptible moments that didn’t quite fit.
The way his gaze lingered just a second too long on scenes of warmth, as if observing something he could never touch. The brief pauses in his actions, as though hesitation existed where none should. The subtle shift in his expression when no one was looking—so fleeting it could be dismissed as imagination.
But I noticed.
Because I understood.
Loneliness has a way of recognizing itself, even when it’s hidden beneath layers of indifference and distance. It doesn’t need to be spoken aloud to be felt.
And his loneliness was deafening.
The more I read, the more it consumed me. Every scene he appeared in drew my attention completely, overshadowing the main plot, the heroine, everything else that was supposed to matter more. I began rereading his chapters, analyzing every line, every gesture, as if searching for something the story refused to give him.
Understanding.
Someone, anyone, who would look at him and see more than just a villain.
My chest would tighten every time he was pushed further into isolation, every time the characters dismissed him without a second thought, every time the story moved closer to the inevitable conclusion where he would be defeated, erased, forgotten.
It felt unfair.
Unbearably so.
Because no one ever tried.
No one ever stayed.
Late one night, as I lay in bed with my phone casting a soft glow in the darkness, I found myself staring at an illustration of him. He stood alone, just as he always did, his expression unreadable, his presence distant and untouchable.
My fingers moved before I could stop them, gently pressing against the screen as if I could somehow reach him through it.
“If someone stayed…” I whispered, my voice barely audible in the quiet room.
The words lingered in the air, fragile and uncertain.
“If someone chose you…”
My throat tightened.
“I would.”
The confession slipped out so naturally it startled me.
I should have laughed at myself. Dismissed the thought as ridiculous. After all, he wasn’t real. He was nothing more than words on a page, a character in a story that would continue on the same path no matter how I felt about it.
And yet…
“I’d stay,” I murmured, my voice trembling slightly. “Even if everyone else left… I wouldn’t.”
A strange warmth spread through my chest, unfamiliar and overwhelming all at once.
“If I were there…” I continued softly, my eyes never leaving his image, “I’d give you everything.”
Everything I had.
Everything I had never been able to give anyone in my own world.
Understanding.
Patience.
A love that didn’t disappear the moment it became inconvenient.
A small, fragile smile formed on my lips.
It was foolish.
Impossible.
But for the first time in a long while, the emptiness inside me felt… less.
My eyes slowly drifted closed, exhaustion pulling me under as I held onto that thought like a fragile dream.
If only I could go there…
If only I could meet you…
My breathing softened, the world around me fading into darkness.
I would give you all my love.
And somewhere, beyond the boundaries of reality and fiction—
Something heard me.
And answered.
