The prologue

I sat alone in my small, cluttered apartment, surrounded by stacks of papers and a computer. My novel, the one thing that had given me hope and purpose, lay unfinished on my desk. I had spent years working on it, pouring my heart and soul into every word, every sentence. It was my escape from the cruel world outside, my sanctuary.

But it seemed that no one appreciated my work. The comments on my novel were harsh, cruel.

Comment 1- this is boring.

Comment 2 - bro just give up

Comment 3 - people like this shit?

Comment 4 - it is same as other, no other novels are better.

I couldn't understand why people couldn't see the beauty in my work. Didn't they know what a good novel was? Didn't they understand the effort, the passion that went into creating something like this?

I felt a familiar pain in my chest, a heavy weight that had been bearing down on me for as long as I could remember. It was the pain of loneliness, of being an outcast, of being bullied and belittled by my peers.

I remembered the times in elementary school when the other kids would push me around, call me names, and laugh at me. The pain and humiliation were still fresh in my mind, even though it had been years ago.

My desk was old and worn, with scratches and dents that told the story of a life well-used. The surface was sticky with spills and stains, and the legs were uneven, making it wobble whenever I leaned on it. But it was my desk, my sanctuary, and I loved it.

My room was small and cramped, with barely enough space for my bed and desk. The walls were painted a dingy yellow, and the carpet was stained and frayed. But it was my home, my refuge from the world outside.

I had always been a loner, content to spend my days writing and reading. I had few friends, and those I did have were acquaintances, not people I could truly trust. But that was okay, because I had my novel. It was my friend, my confidant, my everything.

As I sat there, staring at the comments on my novel, I felt a familiar feeling creeping up on me. It was the feeling of despair, of hopelessness. It was the feeling that I would never be good enough, that I would never amount to anything.

I tried to push the feeling away, to focus on my novel, to immerse myself in the world I had created. But it was no use. The pain and sadness were too much, and I felt myself slipping away, losing consciousness.

I reached for my medication, but my hand was shaking so much that I could barely hold the bottle. I tried to open it, but my fingers were too weak. I felt a wave of dizziness wash over me, and everything went black.

I was gone, at the young age of 35. My life, a tragic tale of bullying and loneliness, had come to an end. I left behind no friends, no family, no legacy. I was just a forgotten soul, lost in the sea of humanity.

But my novel, my precious novel, lived on. It was my only hope, my only legacy. I had poured everything I had into it, every ounce of my being. It was my wish, my dream, that it would be published, that it would be read and loved by people all over the world.

But that was just a dream, a fleeting thought in the mind of a dying man. For now, I was gone, and my novel was nothing more than a stack of papers, gathering dust in a forgotten corner of the world