The next morning, I sat at my kitchen table, staring at the laptop like it might sprout legs and start talking.
"Who are you?" I muttered, feeling absurd for addressing an inanimate object.
No response, of course. Just that faint hum, as if the laptop were biding its time. My gaze shifted to the note that had come with it: Keep writing. The world needs your voice.
Did it, though? It didn't feel like my voice anymore. But how could I stop? For the first time, people cared about wat I was producing.
What if this is the point? What if the whole point of Writer_Block, of the strange reader, was to trap me in a cycle, to make me question my own talent? What if the magic is designed to push me to the edge, make me doubt everything I know about myself?
I grip the edge of the desk, my breath shallow, heart pounding. My hands feel clammy. The words from earlier echo in my mind, twisted and half-formed: Don't turn back.
It's almost like a command.
I shake my head again, trying to clear it. This is crazy. This is insane.
But... could it be true? Could I have fallen so far into this cycle that I can't even tell what's real anymore?
I sit back down at the desk, my hands trembling as I lift the lid of the laptop again, cautiously, as if expecting it to bite.
Nothing happens.
I blink, surprised by the stillness of it all. The message isn't there. The symbols aren't there. It's just a blank screen.
I decided to push my luck further.
The world's most unlucky gardener discovers a magical seed.
The screen shimmered, the hum growing louder. Within moments, the words transformed into another masterpiece. This time, it was a sweeping fantasy about a gardener whose mistakes inadvertently grew a forest that protected his entire village from invaders. It was lush, vivid, and heart-wrenching.
As I read through the story, something new caught my attention. A line of text near the end seemed… different. It was written in italics, almost like a signature:
The price must always be paid.
I stared at it, my chest tightening. That line hadn't appeared in the previous stories. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. "What price?" I whispered.
The laptop didn't answer, of course. But I couldn't shake the feeling that it was listening. Watching.
For the next week, I churned out story after story. Each one went viral, each one cementing my reputation as a rising literary genius.
The offers rolling in were beyond anything I could have dreamed of: book deals, film adaptations, speaking engagements. I was finally living the dream.
And yet, that line haunted me. The price must always be paid.
I tried to brush it off as paranoia, the product of an overactive imagination. But strange things started happening. My phone battery drained inexplicably fast. Lights in my apartment flickered at odd intervals.
And then there were the dreams… vivid, unsettling visions of shadowy figures and whispering voices. I would wake up drenched in sweat, the words "the price" echoing in my ears.
Finally, I decided to confront it head-on. Late one night, as the city outside buzzed with distant sirens and murmured conversations, I sat down at the laptop.
"What are you?" I typed, hitting enter with more force than necessary.
The screen flickered, and for a moment, I thought I'd broken it. Then, words appeared, slowly, deliberately:
You already know.
My heart pounded. "What do you want from me?" I typed.
The reply was instantaneous:
To tell stories. But every story has a cost.
I leaned back, the chair creaking beneath me. The words seemed to pulse on the screen, as if they were alive. What did that mean? What cost?
Before I could type another question, the laptop powered down abruptly, its screen going black. I pressed the power button repeatedly, but nothing happened. The room felt colder, the shadows deeper.
I sat there for a long time, staring at my reflection in the now-dark screen, questions swirling in my mind. The success, the fame—was it worth it?
And what price was I truly paying?
It's strange, the way you think you've got a grip on your life, only for something to come along and shake your very core. I've spent years chasing after success, only to find myself facing a void I didn't know existed until now.
The laptop, that damn laptop, it was my lifeline for so long, and yet, now it feels like the very chains that bind me. Funny, isn't it? Success and its shadows.
My fingers hover above the keys, but this time, something's different. There's a lingering hesitation, as if the words are waiting to be summoned by something else—something beyond me. I try to shake it off, but I can't.
What happened to my creativity? What happened to the thrill of writing?
The room is dark, save for the glow of the desk lamp. My office—my sanctuary—feels foreign. The thick leather chair beneath me is too soft. The cluttered desk is too neat. My mind is restless. Too restless.
I glance at the magical laptop on my desk, its metallic surface gleaming even in the dim light.
It hasn't been the same since the incident with Writer_Block, when it finally spoke to me, that day when I learned just how far the threads of this reality are woven into one another.
I remember the way my hand trembled as I closed the laptop for the first time in months, a sense of unease creeping up my spine.
But tonight? Tonight is different.
Tonight, I'm going to write without it.
It's been a challenge—an internal war of sorts—but I've decided to go for it. I close my eyes, breathing in the air of my cluttered sanctuary, and push the laptop aside.
My fingers hover over the keyboard of my old, non-magical model. It's almost laughable, how small it feels in my hands now, after the immense power I've come to expect from its gleaming twin.
But I need to do this. I need to prove to myself that I can still write, that I can still create without the crutch of something I don't fully understand.
The first few words come with difficulty. The small, lonely house... It's not much, but it's a start. My hands hover, unsure, but my mind presses on.
I dig deep, thinking back to the moments when I used to write for the sheer joy of it. The characters, the stories—they weren't just for the audience.
They were for me.
I tap the keys again.
The small, lonely house sat at the end of a winding road, shrouded in mist, as though the earth itself had decided to hide it from the world.
There. That's better.
I lean back in my chair, tapping my chin, watching the words appear on the screen with a quiet satisfaction. It's rough, but it's mine.
No magic. No strange figure behind the scenes. Just me.