It all started when I was born.

The doctor held me up, looked into my infant eyes, and whispered, "This one... this one will fall." Nobody knew what he meant. Not then. Not until years later when the truth reared its beautiful, tragic, 2D head.

I was a normal kid once. Played outside. Touched grass. Felt joy. But then, one fateful day, I downloaded a visual novel. Just one. "It’s just a game," I told myself. "Just some cute anime girls and branching dialogue. Harmless." Oh, sweet summer child.

Three routes in, and I was gone. Lost. Gone like the snacks on my desk at 3am while I sobbed over a fictional character’s tragic backstory. Gone like my GPA, my sleep schedule, my social life—sacrificed at the altar of pixelated perfection and well-written angst.

They say the first VN hooks you, but the fifth breaks you. And brother, I am shattered. I schedule my life around bad endings. I have trauma flashbacks when I hear melancholic piano music. My romantic standards are now impossibly high because real women don’t confess under cherry blossoms with a swelling orchestral theme playing behind them.

People ask me if I’ll ever stop. But how can you stop breathing? How can you stop feeling? I didn’t choose this life. The choice was an illusion. I just clicked “Start Game” and never looked back.

So here I am—emotionally ruined, emotionally thriving. Heart in tatters. Hard drive full.

And I wouldn’t change a damn thing.