Rain hammered the glass hard enough to make it vibrate. In the movies, that's usually the cue for something mystical to happen—a letter from a wizard, maybe, or a strange cat pawing at the window. All I got was a cold draft slicing through the frame and setting my laptop's "L" key twitching.
Note to self: Stop typing diary entries with wet hands. Even fictional existential dread deserves dry electronics.
I skulked in the corner of the lecture hall. The room always smelled like burned coffee and wilted paperbacks. Professor Morley, who looked as though she might actually sleep inside the library, was mid-rant about "narrative causality in modern myths." She gestured at the screen, where a single phrase was projected in bold:
"Every protagonist starts as a nobody."
Great. Story of my life, literally.
I scribbled something in the margin. (Not for posterity; for sarcasm.) My handwriting looked like desperate chicken tracks begging for a linguist.
Morley made eye contact. That was her superpower—seeing through both walls and excuses. "Mr. Carroway, why do you think modern stories insist on ordinary beginnings?"
I pretended to ponder, mostly to mask the fact that I hadn't actually been listening. "Because nobody wants to read about an overachiever?" I offered, just shy of a smirk.
Somebody in the back snickered. The professor shot me the kind of look reserved for detentions and anti-plagiarism lectures.
Bold move, Alec. Next: a career in stand-up, or maybe unpaid improv on subway trains.
Morley didn't flinch. "And if you were the hero, Mr. Carroway, what would your 'ordinary day' look like before the plot kicked in?"
I almost said "like this," but that would have been too meta, even for me. Instead, I glanced at my phone, pretending to check the time. A text notification fluttered in: "Check your mailbox after class. – Mom"
My mother doesn't usually send cryptic texts. Unless you count birthday reminders with veiled threats about cake obligations.
Morley moved on, firing Socratic questions in all directions. I drowned in them—swept atop the tide of other people's ambition, lost in a world more certain of its narrative than I'd ever be.
As the bell rang, students flowed out like lottery balls; some hopeful, some just as lost as me. I trailed behind, letting the clamor settle. The air tasted of summer rain and burnt ambition.
I braved the hallway. My shoes squeaked like an apology as I stepped outside. The mailbox loomed—honestly, more threatening than you'd think for a government-issued metal box.
Inside was a plain envelope. My name, but no return address. No stamps, either.
Either my mother's acquired a government post, or someone is very committed to the art of correspondence.
I turned it over in my hands, bracing for bad news, or worse—mild inconvenience.
I broke the seal.
Inside, a single page: black print, dense, and official-looking.
"You have been selected to participate in an observational study. Non-participation is not an option."
I love a good ultimatum before lunch. Really perks up the appetite.
There was a second line, handwritten this time:
"You'll want to pay attention. The universe rarely offers second chances."
I stared at the page until the words shifted like fish beneath the surface of a pond.
Was this a joke? Or had Thursday just decided to outdo itself?
Either way, it seemed the plot was starting without my permission.
End of Chapter 1