บท 228: The Ache That Never Truly Healed

"⬛⬛⬛⬛!"

My eyes snapped open from the sound echoing in my ears.

"...!"

Had someone called my name?

A real name, not the one given to me in this story.

The familiar scent of old books and worn in furniture greeted me as I took in my surroundings.

It was my room, unchanged from the day I left it.

The same cluttered desk, the same faded posters on the wall, the same worn-out armchair in the corner.

I looked down at my hands, at my body.

It was me.

The real me, not Rel Laurence, the fictional character I had become.

I was back in my old life, seven years before my transmigration.

Just an ordinary high school student, before the world of writing had consumed me.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. 

Compared to my 25-year-old self, I was in peak physical condition back then. 

I wasn't slouching over a keyboard, I wasn't battling writer's block and deadlines. 

I was free.