Written Out of Reality

I wrote the final sentence at midnight. The room went quiet—too quiet. My cursor blinked

once, then stopped. The words on the screen began to change.

Not typing. Correcting. My name blurred into the protagonist’s. My apartment shrank

into paragraphs. The door behind me faded into a footnote. I reached for the

keyboard, but my hands were already described: trembling, ink-stained,

fictional. A new line appeared. The author realizes too late that the story no longer

needs him outside its pages. The screen went black. Somewhere,

a reader turned the page. And I finally understood why the book never had an ending.