Prologue

More than anything, he wanted help. But help was such a foreign thing to him. He never knew he was loved. He never realized that everyone around him just wanted to see him smile—always. That smile became a beacon for others, though he was never aware of it.

Still, whether out of necessity, hidden agendas, frustration from not being able to help, or maybe just spite because no one would leave him alone—or maybe whatever it was he felt—he always managed to brighten the day, the hour, the moment, simply by being around.

He just loved being surrounded by good people. It was such an innocent way to live. Maybe he already knew how others truly were. Maybe he just didn’t want to seem like the kind of person who ignored people. But in truth, he never really knew why he did what he did. And he never realized the love and hope he gave to others.

He poured so much of himself out for everyone without knowing it. He always said, “Since I’ve got nothing else to do… I’m free… you look like you need help…” and so on. But truth be told, the smile he wore like a mask had cracks in it.

Still, as a self-proclaimed servant—maybe even a martyr—he did it all anyway.

Sometimes he got scolded: “You’ve got other places to be.”

Sometimes he got rejected: “I’m fine. I don’t need help.”

And in those moments, his heart would crack a little more. But the mask never broke. Unyielding. He never showed his true face to anyone… well, not to everyone. Only to the ones he loved.

With them, he could unwind. He could be lazy. He could just be. Or so he called it. Others might disagree with what he thought “himself” really was. To most people, he was the mask. But to the ones he held dear, he showed his truth.

But don’t judge him. Sometimes—even with those he loved—he wore the mask too. After all, he was a tempest in a teacup. He knew that. He was very much aware. And so, when things got rough—really rough—he’d wear it like a helmet, like some Greek hero (whoever that was). He’d don it, become something else… not himself.

He never liked being around people, not really. But he loved to talk. And so he confided in pen and paper. Nothing listens quite like a quiet, clean slate and a dancer made of ink. Though, sometimes… he found people who did listen. And he liked that more.

So he surrounded himself with friends who were quiet, slow to speak—better listeners than paper, and far more understanding than minds like his own.

And so he never grew.

…Or did he?

The old soul’s name was Valerie.

Well—technically, he wasn’t an old man. That’s just how he saw himself. And maybe all souls are simply reflections of how we view ourselves, our own version of what we think we are.

But let’s not dive too deep into that—at least not yet. That’s a little less relevant for now.

Valerie, as a young boy, was taught to be a good person. To always be the better man. To strive for the good of others, and to fight the good fight.

He was hot-headed, though. Most of what he was taught just went in one ear and out the other.

Still, despite everything, those lessons shaped him into who he became. Playful. Principled. Respectful. A quiet observer of life’s strings. A master of masks.

Truth be told, he hated this world. And the only things he could hurt that were a part of it… were himself—and the ones who cherished him.

He felt pain too, but chose to express it in strange, unorthodox ways. It’s oddly funny, once you finally understand, after you’ve been looking at it with innocent eyes.

He always had intent. Or at least, that’s what he believed.

In his mind, he was a master strategist—though the truth says otherwise. That’s why I mentioned he sees strings. Some kind of Dr. Manhattan reference, I suppose.

He wanted to climb up to rooftops of tall buildings and glare down like one of those edgy protagonists—or stylish villains—that he thought looked cool.

His tastes had been warped over time by all the fiction he consumed—stories, shows, fantasies. But deep down, he knew it was all just childish fixation.

Daydreams, really. Dreams he would never live out. But that’s how he viewed both the world and himself: through stories.

Now, about that desire to see the world in ruins—

He believed that his very existence was some sort of cosmic vengeance. That he had been placed in this world as part of a cruel joke.

He hated being born.

But shh—

That’s still a secret.

Sometimes, even he forgets it… especially on the good days. He’s just that kind of happy-go-lucky person.

And the ruined world in his mind?

It’s just another daydream. Just like the rest.

That’s one of the fascinating things about him: he loves fiction. He adores what isn’t real. He worships stories.

And somewhere deep in his mind—small as the hope may be—he longs for some kind of isekai-style reincarnation.

If such a thing even exists.

That is… if he’s worthy of such a gift in the afterlife.

With all his silly antics and the many sins he’s carried, let’s be honest—he probably wouldn’t make it to heaven.

So little has been said about our guy, Valerie.

So maybe it’s time we ask:

Why is a guy named Valerie?

His first crush was named W*****.

…Can we still call it a crush?

It was because of her that he picked up a pen and started writing.

Or—maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was actually his language mentor, who once scolded him for plagiarizing another author’s work.

(Shame, shame.)

That moment sparked a promise within him: the next time he was tasked with writing original fiction, he would do it right.

As everyone should.

Plagiarism is a crime! This, I will always say—whether it was me then, me now, or even me in the hereafter.

With that in mind, he began to fall in love with reading—especially poetry and short stories. This was back in high school. Add to that his love for games—ones loosely, subtly, or even sneakily inspired by mythology. Ragnarok Online, for example, and Edith Hamilton’s Mythology. Then there were other games—too many to list here unless I want to turn each into a whole chapter. (Which I won’t. Thankfully.)

Altogether, these were the things that opened the gates to his love for reading and writing.

…Somehow we got off track, didn’t we?

So, why was he named Valerie again?

This had something to do with the girl—W*****.

She’s called “W*****” by her close friends and those dear to her. But Valerie, our main man? He never called her W*****. Not even W*****.

Oddly enough, he always called her “Big Sis.”

And the name “Valerie”? That was something she called him.

No one else ever did. Just Big Sis.

And somehow, it stuck.

It was a little thread between the two of them. Big Sis and Valerie—an unlikely pair. Or so it was in Valerie’s mind: a couple.

…Or was it?

Did Valerie ever truly love Big Sis?

To be fair… was it really W***** who gave him the name?

Maybe not.

As far as I remember, Valerie was the hopeless romantic type. He’d fall for strangers on the spot—for their eyes, their hair, their voices, or no reason at all. That could very well be how he ended up with the name. Maybe there was another “Valerie” he admired, and W***** just helped it stick.

Both Valerie and W***** met sometime around their second year of high school. Or maybe it was third year. I can’t quite recall. But I do remember that it wasn’t their first year—and it wasn’t their last. Just one single year… yet somehow, it felt long. And memorable.

So yeah. Maybe W***** wasn’t his first crush.

Maybe he just poached the name “Valerie” from someone else entirely.

Whoever that Valerie was—she was both significant enough to name himself after, and trivial enough to forget.

Not even I—the author—can tell you who the “real” Valerie is.

So… we got that sorted now, right?

Maybe not. But whatever.

That was Valerie’s hopelessly romantic and emotionally exhausting high school life.

And to be clear—this isn’t just a story about Valerie as a high school student.

It’s going to be so much more.

But before we dive in, maybe we should set aside the name “Valerie” for now… and figure out who our main character really is.

What’s the proper name to give our little MC?

“Hey, Rob,” a familiar voice called out behind him.