Someone else's Fate

𝙃𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙤.

Yes, 𝙮𝙤𝙪. The one reading this while pretending you’re not already invested.

I’m sitting on a bed that probably costs more than my entire previous life. The mattress is too soft, the sheets too white, the room too quiet. It smells like money, power, and comfort that never had to fight for itself. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling like they’re judging me for breathing the same air.

And no, before you ask, I still don’t know if any of this belongs to me.

The funny part? I know exactly where I am.

This is a novel.

Your novel.

Well… our novel now.

Yesterday, I was just like you. A reader curled up with a book, judging characters, yelling internally at female leads for trusting men who practically waved red flags like it was a profession. Today, I’m the doomed female lead of a nonsensical story where the heroine dies early and painfully.

Universe has jokes. Bad ones.

Before you start romanticizing this situation, don’t.

I don’t remember this body.

I don’t remember this life.

And my dreams keep whispering that I’m here for a reason I don’t understand yet.

If this were a game, I’d uninstall.

If it’s magic, it’s definitely illegal.

I sigh and fall back against the pillows, staring at a ceiling that looks nothing like the cracked one back home. No faint water stains. No familiar fan noise. No mama humming in the kitchen.

My chest tightens before I can stop it.

A soft click-clack echoes through the room. Heels. Confident. Familiar in a way that doesn’t belong to me but somehow still feels close.

The door opens.

She walks in like she owns the world, or at least refuses to let it push her around. Sharp eyes, straight posture, hair pulled back neatly. She’s carrying a small box, the sweet smell reaching me before she does.

Cupcakes.

She smiles when she sees me, and it’s warm. Real. The kind of smile that doesn’t need effort.

“Good morning, cupcake,” she says gently, as if the word has lived on her tongue for years.

There it is again. That ache. Not pain, exactly. More like absence pretending to be fine.

She sits beside me and opens the box, offering it forward. I hesitate for half a second before taking one. The first bite melts in my mouth and I almost groan.

God. That’s unfairly good.

Her smile widens at my reaction, eyes softening like she’s relieved over something she didn’t say out loud.

For a moment, I forget where I am. For a moment, she reminds me of my brother. The way he used to watch me eat, amused, like my happiness was contagious and mildly embarrassing.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, voice careful.

I shrug. “Like I got hit by a truck. Which I technically did. Minus the truck. And plus an identity crisis.”

She chuckles quietly, but there’s worry tucked behind it. She watches me closely, like I might vanish if she blinks.

We sit there, sharing cupcakes and silence. It’s oddly comforting. Dangerous too.

Then she speaks again, softer this time.

“Mom would’ve scolded you for skipping breakfast like this.”

My hand freezes mid-bite.

Ah. There it is.

She tells me about her. About a woman who died giving birth to me. About how the man who is supposed to be my father never forgave a newborn for surviving. About how this house, as grand as it is, has always been colder than it looks.

I listen quietly, heart doing something unpleasant inside my chest.

Weird people, I think distantly. Blaming a baby for breathing.

She squeezes my hand gently, as if grounding herself as much as me. “You were always kind,” she says. “Soft. Too forgiving sometimes.”

That… doesn’t sound wrong. And that scares me more than if it did.

She opens her mouth again, then closes it.

Hesitation. Heavy. Loaded.

I catch it.

“What?” I ask. “Say it.”

She looks at me for a long moment, eyes searching my face like she’s trying to decide how much truth I can survive today.

“There’s something you need to know, cupcake.”

And just like that, the air changes.

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