Chapter 2

Birthdays are a strange ritual. A day that arrives with the punctuality of a celestial clock yet its significance is entirely fabricated by humans. It is as if we have decided that this one point in time deserves celebration, because of the arbitrary meaning we glued to it. This day, what truly makes it fascinating, apart of the countless other days, becomes the focal point of our identity. A birthday isn't just a marker of aging- it's a fleeting moment where the self is simultaneously immortalized and exposed, as if the world pauses for a breath to acknowledge that you exist, even as you inch closer to nonexistence. And so, we smile, eat cake, and pretend that this day is different from the rest, while we deep down know, that this is just another revolution of the earth, another grain in the hourglass.

"Ara ara, as gloomy as ever, aren't you?" The shitty attendant's voice sliced through the silence like a blade, cutting through the monotony of the day as she scanned the third book in my stack. 
"You know, you could stop with the 'shitty attendant' nonsense and actually call me by my name. I know I don’t pop up in the story all that often, but you could at least let the readers know about the amazing big sister you’ve got."
"Don’t just casually try to insert yourself into the narrative!" My retort was reflexive, but it felt like trying to swat a fly with a feather—utterly ineffective.
"In east Asia and some other cultures it is common to refer to someone older to you as big Sister or big Brother, just like we call our parents dad or mom. Your just nor saying what they are- you're kind of giving the official titles you know. Your older brother isn't just 'John' or whatever; he's 'Brother', capital B. Same for 'Sister'. It's like saying 'You’re the one who’s got this whole life thing slightly more figured out than me, so I guess I’ll listen to your advice... sometimes.' They're the ones that were there and did the stuff you are about to do. You know, like how in video games, the older sibling is the one who’s unlocked all the levels before you even got the controller. They’ve been around longer, messed up a bit more, and somehow earned the title that comes with it. These titles aren’t just about who was born first—they come with a side of respect and a dash of expectation. When you call someone "Brother" or "Sister," you’re acknowledging that they’ve earned their stripes in the battlefield of family life. Another fun fact? In some cultures, these titles can even extend to older cousins, family friends, or anyone who plays that older sibling role. It’s like having an extended family of honorary siblings who’ve all got your back."
"What is this big tangent. Are you trying to establish yourself as the big sister type?"

"And why shouldn’t I?" she countered, her grin widening.
"Authors deliberately create memorable characters, you know? It’s so readers can start placing bets on who the main character ends up with. I sympathize with the big sister type of character, you know the type that makes the main character squeal."

Oi, oi, this isn’t some clichéd romance novel. And you’re not even a character in this story. Heck you don't even make me squeal. You don't even look like the type. Maybe the total opposite.
"Don't make my character this ambiguous, the reader will get confused."
She leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing.
"Come on, just give me a proper introduction, will you? A name, a backstory—something to make me more than just a 'shitty attendant.' Otherwise...", she murmured, her voice now a velvet whisper that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken threats. No, she was the type who didn’t just threaten—she promised.

And the thing is, she wasn’t wrong. In the labyrinth of stories, characters aren’t defined by how they’re introduced; they’re defined by how much they force their way into the plot, how much they refuse to be ignored. She understood this far better than I did, and now she was challenging me to acknowledge her presence in a way that couldn’t be undone, even if she wasn't relevant to it.

I sighed, the weight of inevitability pressing down on me like an anchor. "Fine," I muttered, each word a reluctant concession. "You want an introduction? I’ll give you one."

The shitty attendant—no, she—wasn’t just a background character. She was a disruption, a variable that couldn’t be accounted for, the kind of wildcard that could turn a story on its head just by existing. She was the embodiment of chaos in a narrative that thrived on unpredictability. But she will never be part of the story or any story for that matter. Her existence is unnecessary, her words are meaningless and have no purpose. Yet she exists in my life as a footnote. She isn't just a background character, more like she is the background character.  Her trying to force herself in is utterly pointless. The story will never touch upon her. 

"That’s more like it," she said, satisfaction dripping from her voice as she handed me the book, the scan completed with a finality that felt ominous. "Now, let’s see how much more interesting things can get from here."

And with that, she turned and walked away, her presence lingering in the air. As I watched her retreating form, a sense of foreboding settled in my gut. The fact that she even inserted herself to this extend...
I grabbed my stuff and headed out.