They say heartbreak builds character. That pain is a teacher.
Well, then hand me a diploma in despair—engraved in gold, preferably. I've certainly earned it.
Perhaps I should be giving lectures—on how to be the perpetual afterthought. The backup plan. The unwanted twin. The prince they'd rather forget.
Let's not dance around it—suicide. Shall we speak plainly?
It's not about dying. Please. Death is easy.
It's about quitting. Stepping off the stage mid-monologue.
It's about choosing silence in a world that mocks your every line.
It's not a plea for help. It's the final act in a play where the audience never clapped.
And yet... isn't there something deliciously tragic about despair? Isn't there?
A twisted romance in being broken by something as fragile as hope.
Because if pain can echo through your bones like this—doesn't that mean joy might roar even louder, someday?
They'll tell you you're being dramatic. That there are plenty of fish in the sea.
But maybe I wasn't just fishing, Maybe... I was drowning—And she looked like the shore.
Maybe her smile felt like home, and when she turned away—it felt like exile.
This isn't a plea for salvation. It's a declaration that I am beyond saving.
And I do hope you're paying attention… because I so rarely bother to explain myself that:
Even gods break. Even jesters bleed beneath the paint.
And even I... have stood at the edge of the abyss and whispered: "Not today."
So laugh, if you must. Call me dramatic.
But If I am to suffer, then let it be a spectacle worthy of memory. Let my suffering be immortalized in the cracks of time.
And just like that... I drowned.
Not in water—but in silence, thick and absolute.
The kind of silence that follows a world-ending boom.
You see, I didn't just die. No, no, darling—I brought the whole curtain down with me.
Triggered every nuke like a conductor cuing a symphony...Mushroom clouds blooming like flowers—my final bouquet to humanity...
Call it vengeance. Call it lunacy. Call it art, if you like.
But don't dare mistake it for mercy. I knew exactly what I was doing.
And when the fire faded… when the screams turned to ash… and the world lay still—
Only then did I let go.
Blackness swallowed me whole.
And when I opened my eyes…
The stars were watching me.
Or rather—she was.
She sat on a throne carved from galaxies, white hair tumbling like comet trails, her eyes a whirl of cosmic storms and dying suns.
A goddess, if such things exist.
Mischief curled at the corners of her lips like a secret dying to be told.
"Well, well," she said, voice like velvet wrapped around a knife. "Another fool convinced the end had the decency to be final. How quaint.