"Miranda, you're still reading? Time for us to get back to work."
I looked up from my book, blinking at the familiar voice. Typical. Always poking me out of my literary sanctuary.
"Alright… I'm going," I muttered, sliding a finger through the last few pages before reluctantly closing the book.
I tucked it carefully into my bag, like it was a fragile treasure, then joined my colleagues as we headed back to the office.
By the way…
I'm Miranda Halerich. 26 years old, independent, self-sufficient, and stubbornly devoted to my little rituals. People often ask me why I still prefer physical books in a world drowning in online reading.
The answer?
Books are grounding. They're a safe harbor, and I'd rather lose myself in paper and ink than in some flickering screen.
I was almost at the end of the book I'd been reading for weeks. I promised myself a reward afterward, a shiny, new one to start fresh.
Yes, call me dramatic if you must, but books are my sanity anchors.
That's just me.
The office was… well, the office. Work, work, and more work. The kind of day that drags its heels like a lazy cat refusing to move.
Every day was like that, actually. I'd rather curl up with a book than babysit the Xerox machine, watching it labor through each copy like a medieval torturer.
"Gracious goodness! How slow can this be?"
I muttered, puffing out air like I was personally being punished.
Unable to resist, I secretly pulled my book from my bag, savoring the stolen moments as I devoured the last few pages.
"Don't disturb me! I'm copying a hundred copies of the boss's precious scraps!" I snapped at anyone glancing my way, my tone sharp but playful.
Honestly, this office was less a den of cubicles and more a circus of personalities. I liked that. Style over stress, that was my motto.
As the final page slipped from my fingers, I hugged the book close.
Closing a satisfying read was a ritual, a small victory in the battlefield of mediocre office life. Strong FLs always deserved a proper send-off.
Finally, after what felt like eons of paper jams and impatient tapping of the copier,
I was done.
I handed the documents to my superior and scurried back to my desk to tidy up the remnants of my workload.
When the clock's five o'clock hand finally struck, I practically bolted to the scanner, hitting the ground floor button with impatience dripping off me.
"Bye, guys! See ya toms!" I called over my shoulder, barely glancing at the coworkers lingering behind.
Humming a triumphant little tune, I pressed the elevator button again and muttered to myself:
"I'm getting a new book. New book. New book."
The thought made my chest tingle with excitement. Books weren't just hobbies, they were sanity, armor, and joy all rolled into one.
Stepping out into the bustling streets, I made a beeline for the bookstore, weaving through the crowd with purpose.
Inside, I wandered the aisles like a predator among prey, scanning for the familiar genre that always hit the right notes.
"Let's see… this one," I murmured, picking up a book with a cover that practically screamed intrigue. The synopsis caught my eye, the female lead saved by the cold male lead.
Saved? Really?
I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
Was she a damsel in distress or just pretending to be?
I almost put the book back, ready to walk away, but then I hit the bait.
"She rose back up, and got her revenge on those who wronged her."
Now that… that was interesting. A face-slapping heroine? A little chaos and justice? Perfect.
I grinned, tucking the book under my arm and striding confidently to the cashier. Paying a quarter of my day's earnings for this gem?
Absolutely worth it.
No regrets.
Outside, I made my way to the bus station, clutching my prize like a secret treasure. The temptation to open it right there was nearly unbearable, but I resisted.
No, this book deserved its ritual, quiet, bed, lights low, the kind of reading that lets a story breathe in your hands.
I settled on the bench, humming softly, my mind racing ahead to the adventures waiting within those pages.
My fingers twitched, itching to flip the cover, but discipline, and the sacredness of ritual, kept me in check.
My sanity… my joy… my rebellion against weak, crying FLs, all depended on this little moment.
The ride home was quiet, almost soothing after the chaos of the office.
The sound of the bus, the soft shuffle of feet, the occasional chatter, it was background music to my anticipation.
When I stepped inside my own apartment, I immediately hung up my bag and started making dinner.
Efficiency was key.
I needed as much uninterrupted time for reading as possible.
Tonight, it was just me, my kitchen, and my sanctuary.
I whipped up braised pork, moving freely around my space with the ease that independence brought.
No one watching, no interruptions, just me, doing things my way.
Then later on..
Dinner finished, dishes washed, chores ticked off.
Finally, I climbed onto my bed, propped against the headboard, and carefully peeled the plastic wrap from my new book.
This. This was it.
Another book. Another world to dive into. Another heroine to admire, perhaps another face-slapping scene I'd cheer for.
I opened the first page and read with focus, as I always did. I didn't just skim stories, I lived them. Every plot beat, every character arc, every emotional spike hit me directly.
And that's why I got so invested.
The first few pages were promising. The setup was solid. The FL's struggles were clear, her bullying portrayed with sharp cruelty.
"Damn. They're brutal to her," I muttered, flipping the page like a judge passing sentence.
An hour passed.
My brows knitted so tightly I probably looked like a cartoon villain in concentration. But then… the story started to unravel in the worst possible way.
"How many times does she need to cry?" I growled.
Seriously.
Every scene, crying, whining, sobbing.
Where was the fight?
Where was the revenge?
I was 29 chapters in and nothing had progressed.
"This isn't worth it," I muttered, scowling, the promise of the new book feeling like a cruel joke.
But still, I forced myself to continue. My teeth were gritted so hard I feared they might crack.
"The… fuck? Really? She broke up with her true love for some rich guy?"
My jaw dropped.
My mind had been hunting for that revenge arc, that satisfying smack of justice, and yet… nothing.
I read on, disbelief turning into outrage.
"The hell? Is this her revenge arc? The new guy technically did it for her!"
Page after page, the story sank deeper into trashy, two-faced nonsense.
"Nuh-uh… she didn't just cry again? And this new guy? She cries and he's already swooning like a love-struck fool?"
I grunted, my patience evaporating. I was totally losing it.
"The reason for all this? Outrageous! She cries because she misses her old lover… and buries her face on the new guy's chest?!"
Hypocrisy. Pure, unfiltered hypocrisy.
Innocent and gentle, my foot.
The FL's actions and decisions screamed contradiction. I could feel my internal commentary combusting in fury.
What kind of book even was this?
My eyes widened, disbelief snapping across my face, as I read the next blow.
"The audacity! She's still meeting her ex-lover, wrapped him around her fingers, telling him she loves him purely, and now when he actually needs monetary help… she only says she'll pray for his mother's fast recovery?"
I could feel my blood pressure spike.
Without thinking, I hurled the book across the room.
THUD!
My first ever book, brutally abused by my own hands. Quite the difference between my perfectly lined up books in the shelves.
Not even a speck of dust could be found in them.
Ugh!
"She told him she still loved him, yet when he actually needed help… she only offered words! When she has the means to pay for the treatment herself!"
I raged.
I swore.
I lost count of the number of curses aimed at the FL, the author, and the readers who had somehow glorified this nonsense.
"What kind of book is this really? Tagged as best-seller? What has the world come to?"
I slumped against my bed, sinking into the mattress, biting down on my blanket in pure, unfiltered fury.
"If i was inside that book? I will smack some senses into this pretentious FL. This trash like guy of a rich guy, and let this poor sub ML get enlightenment. Fuckers! These people are trashes!"
And then… my ears twitched.
DING.
Static. Just… static.
My vision blurred.
Something was happening.
Something that had nothing to do with books, nothing to do with the mundane world around me… and everything to do with the hatred I'd been carrying, bottled and burning, all the way to this exact moment.