The first comment appeared above her head at 9:17 a.m.
At first, she thought it was sunlight.
A faint shimmer in the air, like heat rising from asphalt.
Then the words sharpened.
BORING.
She blinked.
The classroom didn't react. The students kept whispering. The ceiling fan kept spinning with its tired metallic hum. Outside, traffic moved like it always did. Normal. Ordinary. Unaware.
Another line flickered into existence.
Why is she even the female lead?
Her throat went dry.
Female lead?
A soft, confused laugh escaped her. "Okay," she muttered under her breath. "I definitely need more sleep."
But the sky didn't stop.
More text stacked above her like invisible graffiti.
She has no personality.
Replace her.
This story is dragging because of her.
The air felt heavier. Thicker.
She stepped back, knocking into a desk. A student looked at her strangely.
"Ma'am? Are you okay?"
She opened her mouth to answer—
Petition to delete her.
Delete.
That word didn't shimmer. It burned.
Her heartbeat stuttered. The world tilted slightly, like someone had nudged reality off balance.
"I'm fine," she said automatically. Her voice sounded far away, even to herself.
Delete her.
As if she were a file. A draft. A mistake.
The comments kept multiplying.
Male lead deserves better.
She's too soft.
No chemistry.
Drop the book if she doesn't change.
Book.
The ceiling fan stopped mid-rotation.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
The whispers froze in mid-syllable. A notebook hung in the air, pages half-turned. Even the sunlight paused where it touched the floor.
The only thing still moving—
—was the sky.
Now it looked less like a sky and more like a cracked screen. Thin fractures spreading outward.
Her chest tightened.
"This isn't real," she whispered.
A new line appeared, larger than the rest.
Editor Notice: Character Evaluation in Progress.
Evaluation?
Memories flashed through her mind—every moment she chose kindness over confrontation, every time she stayed silent to keep peace, every time she loved without asking for anything back.
Was that wrong?
Was she written wrong?
Another message pushed everything else aside.
Engagement Level: Low.
She felt something pull at her. Not physically—but deeper. Like invisible fingers gripping the center of her existence.
"I didn't do anything," she said, louder now.
No response.
Only text.
Recommendation: Rewrite or Remove.
Her breath came faster.
Rewrite?
Remove?
"Wait," she said, panic creeping in. "You can't just—"
Voting in Progress.
Numbers appeared.
A percentage bar.
It started shifting.
40%
63%
72%
Her knees weakened.
Somewhere—somehow—someone was deciding if she deserved to exist.
"Please," she whispered. "I can change."
The percentage climbed.
88%
Tears blurred her vision.
"I can be stronger," she said quickly. "I can fight back. I can hate him instead of loving him. I can cause drama. Is that what you want?"
For a second, the number paused at 93%.
Hope flickered.
Then—
97%.
Her body began to feel strange.
Not dramatic.
Not glowing.
Just… thinning.
Like she was losing weight. Losing importance.
A final line appeared.
Decision: Delete.
100%.
The classroom shattered into white.
Not exploded.
Erased.
Desks vanished first. Then walls. Then the frozen students dissolved like pencil sketches wiped clean.
She stood alone in a blank space that stretched forever.
No floor.
No ceiling.
Just white.
"If this is a joke," she whispered, "it's not funny."
Footsteps echoed behind her.
Slow. Measured.
She turned.
A silhouette stood at a distance—tall. Familiar.
The male lead.
Of course.
He looked at her with something unreadable. Not love. Not indifference.
Recognition.
As if this had happened before.
"Don't," she whispered.
He took one step forward.
The white space flickered.
Cracks spread beneath her feet.
"I wasn't weak," she said, her voice breaking. "I was written that way."
For the first time, his expression shifted.
Pain.
The ground gave way.
She fell.
Not down.
Just away.
Away from the white.
Away from him.
Away from everything.
The last thing she heard before the void swallowed her was a faint, mechanical whisper—
File moved to Trash.
Darkness.
Then—
A sharp gasp tore from her lungs.
She was back in the classroom.
The ceiling fan spinning.
Students whispering.
Sunlight touching the floor.
Her hands gripped the edge of the desk.
9:16 a.m.
One minute before the first comment appeared.
Her heart pounded.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted her eyes to the sky.
Clear.
For now.
Her lips trembled.
"This time," she whispered,
"I won't let you delete me."