Chapter 1: A Stupid and Shameful Death
Hi. I'm Bella Snow.
Not much to tell about me, really. I'm 26, I live alone, and I have exactly two things that make life feel bearable: fictional romance novels... and grocery discounts.
So there I was, walking out of the neighborhood store like some triumphant warrior, arms filled with spoils of war. One hand carried a bulging plastic bag of groceries—instant noodles, frozen dumplings, and two avocados I was absolutely not going to let rot this time. In the other hand? The final volume of my all-time favorite series, The Fate of Our Love.
That novel... I'd waited three whole years for it to finish. THREE. YEARS. That's longer than any relationship I've ever had, which says a lot about me and... well, modern dating.
The streets were quiet, bathed in amber light. The wind whispered like an old friend, reminding me that peace still existed in small, unremarkable evenings like this.
With a soft sigh of relief, I parked my beat-up hatchback in the underground lot of my apartment complex, grabbed my things, and trudged upstairs. My keys jingled a tired tune as I unlocked the door to my one-bedroom unit on the sixth floor.
"Finally home," I mumbled.
Not to anyone in particular—just me and the cold air of my apartment. Living alone does that. You start talking to yourself like it's normal. It becomes... routine. Comforting, in a weird way.
I dropped the groceries onto the kitchen counter like I'd just come back from war. Then, with all the grace of someone who hadn't cleaned her apartment in a week, I kicked off my sneakers, yawned like a bear, and bee-lined for the bathroom.
A long, hot shower washed off the city's dust, exhaustion, and existential dread. As the water ran down my face, I stared blankly at the white tiles and thought, This is it, huh? Wake up, work, buy food, read fiction, die someday. Rinse. Repeat.
But hey, at least tonight I had the final volume.
After throwing on my softest pajamas—cat print, don't judge—I made myself something vaguely edible. Stir-fried eggs with soy sauce and a side of toast. A classic lazy-girl combo. I sat on the couch with a warm bowl of food on my lap, chewing contentedly as I read the first few pages of the novel.
The book crackled with fresh-ink smell. My fingers trembled in anticipation.
The characters I'd spent years with... their story was about to end.
This was it.
---
• 30 Minutes Later •
Still reading.
Eyes wide, breath shallow, legs crossed beneath me on the bed. I was sucked into their world, heart pounding. But slowly... slowly... that pounding changed.
It wasn't excitement.
It was betrayal.
I flipped a page. Then another.
"What the hell…?" I murmured.
A pit formed in my stomach.
The male lead—the supposed redeemed villain—turned out to be a manipulative sociopath. The heroine? An indecisive puppet. And my favorite character, the actual villainess with layers of trauma, power, and charm? Tossed aside. Reduced to a plot device. Her love, her sacrifice, her entire arc… all for nothing.
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"
I threw the book across the room. It hit the wall with a soft thud. My cat-shaped bookmark fluttered down like a wounded soldier.
I screamed into my pillow.
"If she never loved the villain, then WHY lead him on?! And WHY is my villainess so STUPID to fall for that trash?!"
I lay there, seething. Betrayed by fiction once again.
Maybe I cared too much. But honestly? Fiction had given me more love and loyalty than real life ever did.
---
Eventually, my rage dulled into sulking. My thoughts spiraled.
I'd spent three years waiting for that ending. Three years expecting something. Closure. Meaning. Justice.
But like life, the story didn't care what I wanted. It ended the way the author wanted. With absurd cruelty, unanswered questions, and no happy endings for the ones who actually deserved it.
Much like life itself.
That was when it hit me.
I needed to pee.
Suddenly. Urgently.
"Oh no... no no no!"
I launched myself off the bed and bolted toward the bathroom like an Olympic sprinter. My body screamed at me like a malfunctioning siren.
> "MOVE THOSE LEGS, YOU SLOWPOKE!" "WE'RE GONNA BURST!"
Even my own bladder had turned on me.
By some miracle, I made it to the toilet. I sat down, sighing in sweet relief.
And I stayed there. Scrolling on my phone. Reading reviews for the novel. Realizing others felt just as betrayed as I did.
Then... as I stood up...
My foot slipped.
There was a wet patch on the tile. Probably from earlier. Maybe condensation. Maybe fate being a petty asshole.
"Wait—what—NO—!"
My arms flailed. I tried to grab something—anything—but the momentum carried me forward.
My head slammed hard into the edge of the toilet bowl.
Pain exploded behind my eyes. Everything spun.
And then...
Silence.
I lay there, head inside the toilet, arms splayed on the floor, dazed. Humiliated.
"This... this can't be how I die."
But it was.
No divine intervention. No dramatic final words. No guardian angels or anime-style resurrection scenes.
Just me, a failed reader, dead from slipping in my own bathroom.
I'd spent 26 years existing. For this?
A stupid. Shameful. Death.
---
• But That Wasn't the End •
You'd think dying would be peaceful. Fade to black. A deep, eternal sleep.
Instead, I woke up.
Or something like that.
I floated in... a space. Not heaven. Not hell. Not fire. Not clouds. Just... space.
Endless, quiet, weightless.
My body? Not really there. But I still felt like me.
I looked around. Stars shimmered above. A soft light pulsed below me, like the heartbeat of the universe.
"Where... am I?" I whispered.
There was no answer.
No pearly gates. No judgment scale. No God in a golden chair.
Just silence.
Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe this was some final brain-chemical hallucination before true death.
Then, suddenly, a voice spoke—not from above, but from beside me.
"You've arrived, Bella Snow."
I turned.
A woman stood there.
Tall. Ethereal. Silver hair, glowing eyes, barefoot, wrapped in starlight.
"I am Christina," she said, "Guide of the Between."
Not goddess. Not angel. Not deity. Just... guide.
I blinked. "I'm sorry... what?"
"You died," she said simply.
"Yeah, I... figured."
"Toilet bowl."
"Okay, no need to rub it in."
She smiled.
"No gods?" I asked, glancing around. "No heaven? No hell?"
"No. Not for you. Not for anyone," she said. "There is only this. The Between. And what comes next."
"What comes next?" I asked, heart thudding.
"That's up to you."
"No divine judgment?"
"Nope."
"Rebirth? Reincarnation? Karma?"
"Nope."
"Then... what was the point of everything?"
She shrugged. "Does there have to be a point?"
I stood there, silent. The emptiness of the void around us suddenly mirrored the emptiness gnawing inside me.
I'd always assumed—like most people—that death meant something.
Now, I wasn't so sure.