The door clicked shut behind me.
Victor was already pulling back into traffic, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. He glanced at me briefly through the rearview mirror — something unspoken in his expression — then chose not to say it.
That was Victor. He always noticed. He rarely pushed.
I leaned back and stared at the headrest in front of me.
"Are you seriously going to give him a lift, Victor? We're going to be late!"
Ah.
That voice.
I didn't even need to look to confirm it.
Isabella.
I slowly shifted my gaze inside the car.
There she was, sitting comfortably in the passenger seat like she owned the place, sharp eyes already locked onto me with visible irritation.
Her lips curled slightly as if my mere existence was an inconvenience.
I didn't react.
Victor glanced between us like someone stepping into a minefield.
I leaned back, meeting Isabella's glare through the rearview mirror.
"Didn't know you were carpooling with a bitch today, Victor," I said flatly. "Guess you're into dog types now."
Victor's shoulders tensed instantly.
Isabella's head snapped toward me.
"What did you just say, you piece of shit?!" she spat, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
"I'm just stating facts," I replied calmly, crossing my arms. "A girl who gets rejected, can't handle it, and then dates the best friend of the guy who turned her down. That's impressive dedication."
Her eyes burned.
Victor gripped the steering wheel tighter.
"All right, that's enough!" he cut in. "We're not doing this first thing in the morning."
Isabella clicked her tongue and turned toward the window, arms folded tightly.
But I saw it.
That flicker.
The subtle crack in her expression.
Sadness.
Regret.
Maybe even something like embarrassment.
I ignored it.
I didn't have the emotional capacity to deal with her issues today.
Because my own mind was a mess.
The Author wasn't there.
Not a whisper.
Not a comment.
Not even an irritating correction.
Nothing.
I tried again.
Author.
Silence.
The emptiness inside my head felt unnatural.
For years, there had always been something there. Observing. Guiding. Occasionally mocking.
Now—
It felt like someone had removed a wall I didn't know was supporting the ceiling.
My mother's strange behavior this morning replayed in my thoughts.
Her hesitation.
The way she avoided answering directly.
The faint sadness in her eyes.
Was it connected?
Was that why he left?
What if something terrible was about to happen?
What if I was about to be—
I swallowed.
Isekai'd?
No.
That's stupid.
Or maybe not.
What if my story suddenly shifts genre?
What if this is the beginning of some apocalypse arc?
My imagination spiraled.
Every possible catastrophic scenario flooded my thoughts.
My head began to ache.
No.
Calm down.
If something is going to happen, panicking won't help.
I need to stay rational.
But a part of me screamed—
If that bastard Author were here, I'd at least get a hint.
Just a tiny warning.
But he was gone.
Maybe that was the point.
Maybe he left to see how I'd react without him.
To test me.
To watch me struggle.
I clenched my jaw.
Why should I care whether he's there or not?
He's just a voice.
Just a narrator.
Just—
No.
That's not true.
He was the closest thing I had to a parent.
My father was a blank space.
A name that never existed.
And my mother…
She was warm.
Playful.
Mysterious.
But never grounding.
Never someone I could rely on for answers.
She felt like someone acting the role of "mother" rather than being one.
But him?
He was constant.
Even when he irritated me.
Even when he called me a pawn.
Even when he refused to explain things properly.
He was there.
And now—
He wasn't.
Twelve years ago.
I was eight.
Sitting on the roof of our house, staring at the stars.
I liked counting them.
It made the world feel measurable.
Controllable.
That was when I heard it for the first time.
The narration.
A voice describing what I was doing.
"…Why are you talking like a narrator?" I asked casually.
The voice stopped.
You can hear me?
I blinked.
"Yes."
Silence followed.
It felt confused.
That is not supposed to happen.
"Who are you?" I asked, squinting slightly at the sky.
I oversee the structural progression of this world.
I frowned.
"So… a god?"
No.
The denial was immediate.
Gods are components within the system. I exist outside it.
I processed that slowly.
"You're writing it."
A pause.
"…Are you an Author?"
Silence stretched.
Then—
If that term simplifies your understanding, you may use it.
I remember smiling.
Not because I was amazed.
But because it made sense.
"Then make me strong."
Strength is proportional to narrative necessity.
"I don't care about narrative necessity," I said bluntly. "I want to win."
Another pause.
You were originally designated as an extra.
I tilted my head.
"Was?"
That classification is under reconsideration.
"Because I can hear you?"
Yes.
I remember leaning back on my hands, staring at the sky again.
"Then make me the protagonist."
Silence.
Longer this time.
Very well.
Just like that.
My life changed.
Not because I felt stronger immediately.
But because I knew.
I knew someone was writing this.
And I wasn't invisible.
"Valerian."
Victor's voice pulled me back to the present.
I blinked.
We were stopped at a traffic light.
"You zoned out," he said carefully. "You sure you're okay?"
"…Yeah."
Isabella didn't look at me, but her voice was quieter now.
"You look pale."
"I'm fine."
The light turned green.
The car moved forward.
I leaned my head against the seat.
When did I become dependent on him?
When did his absence start feeling like abandonment?
He wasn't supposed to be emotional support.
He was supposed to be an overseer.
A cosmic administrator.
A detached being.
So why did it feel like someone important had left without saying goodbye?
My chest felt tight.
I hated that feeling.
I hated not knowing.
I hated uncertainty.
My mother's face flashed in my mind again.
She said nothing would happen to her.
But she didn't look convinced.
What if—
You are overthinking.
My breath caught.
Silence.
Then nothing.
I sat upright slightly.
"Did you say something?" Victor asked.
"No."
My heart was beating faster.
Was that—
No.
That wasn't him.
That was my imagination.
Right?
Right.
The road ahead looked normal.
Students walking.
Cars passing.
The sky bright.
Everything completely ordinary.
Which only made it worse.
Because when things look normal—
That's usually when they aren't.
And for the first time in years—
There was no one narrating what would happen next.