Miss, stop committing suicide

Chapter 2

When was it?

Was it back when I had just entered elementary school and spent my days playing soccer with the other kids?

Everyone, to some extent, is afraid of being ostracized, aren’t they?

That fear led me to cling to the kid who was good at sports and studies, flattering him every day.

Maybe “flattering” isn’t quite the right word—it was more like being a sycophant, always there to shower him with compliments.

Over time, I realized how futile it all was and quickly stopped.

Maybe I stopped because I grew taller than him, towering over him all of a sudden.

I’ve never been one to flatter anyone, not once.

Born perfect, who would I ever need to flatter?

As time passed, the kid I used to flatter shrank in comparison, and he started doing exactly what I used to do—clinging to me.

From then on, I think I started treating everyone pretty much the same.

“Ah.”

I shake my head slightly, brushing away useless thoughts, and get out of bed.

Recalling those old memories makes my head throb and ache.

Sometimes, instead of seeing myself, I see someone else—a little girl.

For instance, a middle-aged man with a scruffy mustache handing me a teddy bear, and “I,” no, the little girl, running around gleefully.

I look into the mirror.

When I frown slightly, the girl in the mirror frowns back.

When I smile, the girl mimics me with an awkward, unsettling grin.

The kind of smile that sends shivers down your spine because it’s so unnatural.

She doesn’t know how to smile properly.

What reason have I ever had to smile?

Snow-white hair, as if bleached with pure whiteness, falls over her shoulders and down to her waist.

Her slightly cold eyes look lifeless, as if they’ve dried out completely.

Hearing it said that way is a bit hurtful, you know.

Haha.

“Phew.”

I close my eyes briefly, then exhale deeply.

Thinking about the mess I caused yesterday, throwing a tantrum and wreaking havoc in the room, it seems someone came in while I wasn’t paying attention.

Probably that nameless maid who begrudgingly cleaned up my mess, muttering complaints under her breath.

Good thing I hid the gun in the drawer before going to sleep.

My father had gifted me this gold-adorned pistol for self-defense, but a gun is still a gun.

They’d probably confiscate it.

Oddly enough, the mirror that should’ve been shattered is intact.

The black marks left by the coffee cup I had hurled at the wall are also gone, leaving only pristine white.

Magic. Of course.

Magic is unfamiliar to me, but clearly, it’s not uncommon here.

Not even a speck of grime lingers on my body, and my uniform is spotless.

It’s like someone went to great lengths to maintain appearances for me.

I may be alone, but I constantly feel watched.

The thought makes me incredibly uncomfortable.

I know this feeling all too well—being scrutinized by eyes that don’t even try to hide, eyes filled with admiration, hatred, greed.

Who would’ve thought?

Turns out, getting trapped in a novel isn’t as rare as you might think.

Even someone like me, who was just reading a romance novel, has now become a pathetic little girl with a vile temper.

…

Why did it have to be this novel?

Why did it have to be this girl?

Why did it have to be…?

Let’s stop.

Dwelling on these negative thoughts might serve as a temporary escape, but at some point, even that escape becomes impossible.

To shift my thoughts, I glance around the now-immaculate room.

Tea, not coffee, sounds appealing right now.

“I’d like iced oolong tea, with lots of ice.”

I remember a café five minutes from my home that sold oolong tea for just 2,000 won, packed with ice.

I liked coffee, too—especially the aroma—and often bought it.

It was affordable, too.

But all I have here is coffee.

What’s wrong with coffee?

This may not be the best-quality roast, but I can’t exactly expect anything better.

I pull finely ground coffee from the shelf and place a suitable amount on a paper filter.

I set the filter precariously over a cup and use magic—conveniently—to pour hot water from my fingertips.

If only I had something like instant ramen, that would’ve been ideal.

No need to boil water or light a fire. Perfect.

The room fills with the rich aroma of coffee.

The fragrance of perfume and the subtle, comforting scent from my body get completely overtaken by the coffee’s rich aroma, which is oddly soothing.

After brewing a strong cup, I toss the used grounds into the trash.

The splashes on the floor? Someone else will clean those up.

It feels like sinking, slowly, into a carefully maintained swamp.

No sludge, no gritty texture—just a gradual descent.

Me. Or rather, this girl.

Ah, it’s still me, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?

Anyway, this girl used to adore one handsome boy.

So much so that she bullied and drove away any girls who got close to him, out of sheer jealousy.

And that handsome boy was her childhood friend, someone she’d grown up with.

I don’t know.

Maybe it was the first love she’d ever felt—if it even was love and not just possessiveness.

But being as immature as she was, her jealousy led her to act clumsily and cruelly.

She drove people away, not by clever schemes, but by undermining her own reputation and isolating herself.

Inefficient, irrational, pointless.

But such actions left small, manageable scars on the protagonist, enough to make readers angry.

Why not? The protagonist sits on a bench or in some secluded corner, crying softly. The male lead, passing by chance, finds her, listens to her story, and resolves to take revenge—not grand, just a little payback.

A touching scene, don’t you think?

But for that one scene, someone like me would be completely erased.

I worked hard to create that moment.

Gathering the kids who followed me to hurl cruel words at the protagonist, begging her to leave the duke alone, only to be told it was none of my business—how foolishly I raged.

When I approached to make amends, I turned away rudely. And when the protagonist chased after me and grabbed my hand, I slapped her.

What can I say?

I didn’t hate her, really. I just hated what she did.

The victim of bullying was, of course, the protagonist. And villains like me deserve to die, right?

But finding out the protagonist was that insignificant girl all along?

Then, my whole life was designed for supporting roles.

Maybe not even a supporting role, but just a tool with a predefined purpose. Haha.

In most cases, childhood cruelty ends with the victim in tatters and the perpetrator unscathed.

Justice in the real world? Rarely satisfying.

But this is a novel.

And most novels follow a moral structure.

Readers want the villain—whether in male- or female-centric stories—to face complete ruin.

More readers identify with the protagonist than the villain, after all.

How could I have known I was living in a novel?

Have you ever wondered if your world is just a story?

I didn’t even know I was the villain.

I was just born to live this way.

Ah, the coffee’s gone.

That was the last of the grounds, I think.

I’m too lazy to go out.

“Excuses.”

Even if I break the academy-provided cups, new ones always appear, so I carelessly let it fall from my hand.

Clink.

It didn’t make a dramatic sound.

Just split into two.

When I woke up, there was a small cup and a bottle of pills beside me.

This body wasn’t even poisoned properly, so it was supposed to wither away painfully and slowly die.

But here I am, awake.

Nothing changes, though.

Most novels where someone possesses the villain do so before their downfall, or at least provide a way to clean up the mess.

But my safety net is gone.

Sadly, my family has already fallen.

I’ll probably be sold off somewhere.

And I’m not particularly exceptional, either.

At least I’m beautiful.

And now, the clumsy, cruel bullying? Its target has become me.

Even if someone tries to harm me, I’m not afraid anymore.

The higher you’ve risen, the harder you fall.

And in that descent, this girl covered me with her corpse and fled somewhere—or maybe we’ve become one.

Even my speech patterns have grown strangely feminine.

When I recall her memories—or are they mine?

Anyway, Anyway, Anyway.

That’s just how it is.

Although my family has fallen, it seems the academy tuition had already been paid in full, so I haven’t been expelled.

I thought that was lucky, but instead of living like a commoner, I became the one commoner bullied.

After waking in this body and attending class, someone shoulder-checked me on their way out.

My seat was covered in degrading graffiti, and the violence… I don’t even want to talk about it.

So, I’ve been shut

in my room for days.

Apparently, they hated the smug way I carried myself. Haha.

The world may be merciful to protagonists, but it spares no pity for villains discarded after a single use.

At night, I hear the door rattling as if someone is trying to break in.

It terrifies me, bringing tears to my eyes.

Enough of this dark story—let’s talk about family.

I don’t know how Father died, but the letter says it was an accident, so he must have taken his own life.

As for Mother… I don’t know.

Locked in this small room I fled to, I’ve little to distract myself.

On the first day, I was locked in the closet all day, then returned to the room, wallowing in gloom.

I amused myself with obscene acts, putting that hard, dark object in my mouth and taking it out.

Or I indulged in the thrill of playing Russian roulette.

Tap, tap, tap.

Someone knocks on the door.

It’s probably the protagonist.

So kind-hearted that they’d even worry about someone who tormented them.

Too cute to really call torment. But, well, it’s a novel.

Though now, it’s my reality.