Please continue writing

1

The school bell echoed through the classroom, and the projector cast a faint, bright spot on the blackboard. The air was filled with the light scent of chalk dust. Outside the window, the shadows of the trees swayed, and the wind rustled through the leaves, creating a soft, whispering sound.

The teacher stood at the podium, opened her folder, and said in a steady voice, "Today, we'll be discussing the symptoms of depersonalization."

The students listlessly flipped through their notebooks, the air thick with the drowsy fatigue of the afternoon. No one was truly interested in the topic until the teacher turned on the projector and an electronic document slowly unfurled.

"Read this article and see what you can discover."

The first half of the document seemed perfectly normal, just an ordinary narrative describing a deserted forest.

"The morning mist filled the woods, and sunlight pierced through the canopy, casting mottled shadows on the damp earth. The wind gently brushed against the branches and leaves, carrying a subtle murmur, like a whisper from a distant place."

The writing was beautiful, so detailed that one could almost smell the dampness of the soil and feel the profound tranquility.

2

But as one’s eyes scrolled down, the style of the text suddenly changed.

"I am writing this article."

"Right now, my hands are paused on the keyboard. I am thinking about what to write next."

The words on the screen seemed to become unsettled, like a person standing before a mirror who suddenly realizes the reflection is staring back.

"If you are reading this, it means you are wondering why I am writing this way."

A few low whispers broke out in the classroom. Some students exchanged confused glances.

"Is this... an experimental text?" someone asked softly.

The teacher didn't answer, merely gesturing for everyone to continue reading.

3

Suddenly, an image appeared on the screen.

In the black and white picture, a girl stood in a dimly lit room with her back to the viewer. Her long hair fell over her shoulders, and her slender figure cast a blurry shadow in the corner. She seemed to be whispering, muttering something to herself.

Who was she?

The document offered no explanation for the picture.

Then, new text slowly materialized.

"If I write 'she turns around,' will she turn around?"

"If you are reading this sentence, has she already turned?"

In that instant, the entire classroom fell silent.

And then—

The girl on the screen abruptly turned her head!

Her movement was extremely unnatural. Her head seemed to be violently twisted by some unseen force, her neck bent at a grotesque angle.

Her eyes were bottomless pits of black, and her lips trembled as if struggling to say something.

A stifled scream was heard in the classroom.

The girl on the screen opened her mouth slightly, her lips moving. A dry, broken voice came through the speakers.

"Save me."

"Get me out of this article."

4

I held my breath.

My heart was pounding wildly, my thoughts dragged into some kind of abyss.

What happens when a character in a novel becomes aware that they are a character in a novel?

Her existence was fictional, yet she was crying for help.

But if she truly realized she was created...

Was she still just "fictional"?

An indescribable chill crept up my spine.

This was more than just a story breaking the fourth wall.

—If she could realize she was a character in a story, then...

What about us?

Are we also just characters in some text?

Is the reality we perceive just a story that has been written?

5

The text on the screen continued to change.

"If you are reading this article, then you are also included in this article."

"You think you are reading a story, but have you ever considered that the story is also reading you?"

My fingertips suddenly grew cold, and I involuntarily tightened my grip on my pen. The world around me became blurry, the sounds seeming to recede, leaving only the words on the screen, like an invisible trap, slowly consuming my mind.

"You think you are the reader."

"But are you really sure you aren't part of the story?"

The screen suddenly went black.

For a moment, the entire classroom was plunged into silence.

6

The teacher gently closed the projector.

"The symptoms of depersonalization," she said, her voice low and calm, "are a collapse of consciousness."

"When a person becomes overly aware of being 'oneself,' when they constantly step outside their own thoughts to watch themselves think, watch themselves live, watch themselves exist, they develop a sense of being torn apart—the very concept of 'existence' begins to collapse."

"A person in a fictional world becomes aware of their fiction, and a person in the real world becomes aware of their reality. Can you be certain that your 'reality' isn't someone else's fiction?"

She paused, her gaze sweeping over the students, their faces a mixture of expressions.

"Just like the text we just saw."

"It doesn't just let you 'see' it; it makes you 'aware that you are seeing it'."

The classroom was silent.

"Alright, now," she said with a smile, turning off the projector, "we'll continue next class."

The screen went dark, but the girl's eyes... they seemed to still be watching me.

I lowered my head, my fingers trembling slightly.

The girl's voice echoed in my mind—

"Save me."

—Or perhaps...

She was merely a substitute for something deeper, making this request on its behalf?

Or maybe, she was no longer on the screen.

But rather, among us?

5

The bell rang, signaling the end of class, and people began to file out of the room. As I packed my bag, I couldn't help but glance again at the computer screen on the teacher's desk. It was off now, a dark screen like a bottomless well that had swallowed all light.

But the image of that girl remained in my mind.

"Save me."

Her voice seemed to still echo in my ears, low and broken, like an insect trapped in a glass jar, struggling desperately but unable to fly out.

After leaving the classroom, I subconsciously pulled out my phone, wanting to shake off that strange feeling. I opened a social media app and scrolled through the usual posts—someone sharing pictures of food, someone complaining about the weather, someone reposting a silly meme.

The real world. Reality. This was reality.

But as I scrolled, my finger suddenly stopped.

I saw a picture.

A familiar picture.

The girl, with her back to the screen, standing in a dimly lit room.

Just like the picture from class.

But this wasn't the class document. It was a post from an unknown user, the timestamp showing it was from five minutes ago.

She was still there.

She had always been there.

6

My heart skipped a beat. I clicked on the comments section, where there were only a few scattered replies:

"What is this?"

"So creepy..."

"Dude, where did you find this?"

The original poster hadn't replied.

I instinctively wanted to lock my phone, but in the next second, the page automatically refreshed.

The post was gone.

As if it had never existed.

I held my breath and searched again, using keywords, even checking my cache, but there was nothing. The picture, the post, the person who published it... all gone.

As if something didn't want it to be found.

7

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself it was all just a mind game from class, a hallucination.

But I couldn't sleep.

An indescribable sense of unease seeped in like a black tide. I closed my eyes, and I could almost hear her whisper.

"Save me."

"Get me out of this article."

Did she... really exist?

I didn't dare to imagine what would happen if she actually "got out."

But the most terrifying thing wasn't her getting out, but...

What if she was never truly in there to begin with?

What if she had been here all along?

In reality.

In the places we can't see.

Watching.

Waiting.

8

In the middle of the night, I finally succumbed to drowsiness, my consciousness sinking into a hazy dream.

But in my stupor, I vaguely felt someone standing by my bed.

A shadow, with its back to me, standing there quietly.

Identical to the girl on the screen.

I couldn't move, couldn't make a sound, my body pinned down by an immense fear, as if I were sealed inside a page that could not be turned.

Then, she began to slowly turn her head.

Just before I could see her face clearly, my consciousness abruptly fractured.

—When I woke up, I found a piece of paper on my pillow. On it were written just four words.

"Please continue writing."

9

I shot up in bed, breathing heavily, my pajamas soaked in cold sweat. The piece of paper on my pillow looked ghostly white in the dim light, the handwriting messy and rushed, as if written by someone in a state of extreme panic.

"Please continue writing."

My fingers trembled.

When did this get here? Who put it here?

I looked around the room. The door was locked, the window was closed, everything was exactly as it had been when I went to sleep. But the paper... those four words... they shouldn't be here.

—What would happen if I kept writing?

—What would happen if I stopped?

I stared at the paper, my mind flashing back to the classroom screen, the girl, her abrupt turn, her silent gaze. What was she waiting for? What did she want me to write?

I took a deep breath, trying to suppress the unease in my heart, and flipped the paper over.

There were more words.

"If you don't write, I will."

10

In an instant, the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

This wasn't the sudden shock of a horror movie, but a deeper kind of shudder, the kind you feel when you realize you've been staring into the abyss, and the abyss has been staring back.

I clutched the paper tightly, my nails digging into my palm.

This is impossible.

It must have been sleepwalking, my own subconscious playing tricks, it must be—

My phone lit up.

A new message appeared on the screen. The sender was an unknown number, with no profile picture, no name.

"You should continue writing."

I almost threw the phone onto the bed.

My heart hammered against my chest, blood rushing to my head. I shakily picked up the phone, my finger sliding across the screen to reply.

"Who are you?"

A few seconds later, a new message appeared.

"You've known who I am all along."

My breath caught.

On the screen, another image popped up.

It was a photo of my room.

—Taken from a corner of the ceiling.

11

I don't know how I managed to dash out of the room, how I ran downstairs. The night was as black as ink. I hadn't even put on shoes, my bare feet hitting the cold floor as I stumbled out of the apartment building.

The city's neon lights flickered, the streets were sparsely populated, but I felt there was nowhere to run.

I leaned against a railing by the road, gasping for air, my ears ringing, my heart feeling like it was about to explode.

But when I lifted my head and looked at a glass storefront in the distance—

My world collapsed.

—Reflected in the glass was not just my own figure.

—Behind me, someone was standing.

She had her head down, her long hair obscuring her face. Her shadow was blurry and still, as if she had never existed, yet had never left.

Then, slowly, very slowly, she raised her head.

Her lips parted slightly, forming familiar words.

"Please continue writing."

12

I couldn't breathe.

The reflection in the glass storefront—the girl standing behind me, her face was still blurry, but the movement of her lips was so clear, as if her voice had already drilled into my mind, needing no ears to be heard.

"Please continue writing."

No, this is wrong.

This can't be happening.

I spun around abruptly—

The street was empty.

There was no one behind me.

But the reflection in the glass hadn't disappeared.

The girl was still standing there, watching me quietly, as if trapped in the mirror, a ghost that couldn't penetrate the surface. Her eyes were finally visible. They weren't ordinary eyes, but blank pieces of paper. On the surface of the paper, faint black ink marks appeared, as if constantly being written and erased.

13

My fingers uncontrollably reached for my pocket. My phone vibrated; I knew a new message would appear.

Sure enough, the screen showed another new message—

"Do you think you are writing the story, or are you being written by it?"

Was this a threat? Or some kind of... guidance?

I swallowed hard, my palms slick with cold sweat. Another message popped up on the screen.

"The story must continue."

"Otherwise, it cannot end."

My fingertips trembled as I slowly typed on the keyboard.

"What if I stop writing?"

Five seconds later, the reply came.

"Then she will."

Then, a new photo appeared on the screen.

—It was my desk.

—My laptop.

—And on the laptop screen, a new line of text was starkly visible:

"If you are reading this, it means I have already started writing."

14

I clapped a hand over my mouth, suppressing a scream.

The computer was at home. It should have been off. There should have been... no one there.

But the text on the screen was still growing.

"I see him. He's outside, on the other side of the screen. He thinks he's running away, he thinks he's the reader, but he's wrong."

"Because he is just a character I wrote."

"And I am the real author."

"—Please continue writing."

—Someone was in my apartment.

—Someone was using my computer to write.

I finally lost control of my fear and started running back frantically.

My footsteps echoed on the empty street, my heartbeat pounded in my eardrums, the city lights distorted into a blurry mess of light and shadow. And beneath it all, only one thought screamed in my mind—

What if I am the story she wrote?

What if all of this is just a line of her text?

What if there's no way for me to escape...

15

When I burst into the apartment and stumbled through the door, the room was silent.

The curtains swayed slightly, as if someone had just left.

The computer screen was still on, the document wide open. The last line of text stopped there, as if waiting for me to fill in the blank.

"He's finally back."

"He sits in the chair, his hand trembling as he reaches out and types the last few words."

I walked slowly toward the computer, my gaze fixed rigidly on the text.

Then, I saw the final line.

"He finally realizes he never wrote this story."

"He was just following it, step by step, as it had already been written."

I stood frozen, the only sound my own heartbeat.

"Please continue writing."

—Who was writing whom?

—Who was in the story?

16

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I didn't know if I could move.

The light from the screen illuminated my face, casting my shadow, blurry and distorted, in front of the computer.

Then, I saw the screen's reflection.

My shadow... was not alone.

The girl was standing behind me, looking down at the screen.

Her lips parted slightly, and she whispered softly.

"It's your turn now."

"You should continue writing."

17

My fingertips were ice-cold, sweat trickling down my neck. I didn't dare turn around.

In the reflection of the computer screen, the girl's figure was right behind me. Her face was still a blur, like a constantly shifting piece of paper where new sentences appeared and vanished every second. Her lips moved slightly, as if whispering, urging, scrutinizing whether I would continue.

What should I do?

If I don't write, what will she do?

More importantly—what will happen to me?

My breathing was erratic, my throat felt constricted, and the air grew thick and heavy. Slowly, very slowly, I raised my hand and typed a few words on the keyboard—

"I turned around."

18

The moment the words appeared on the screen, my neck seemed to leave my control, turning backward involuntarily.

—I saw her.

She was right there.

Her face, finally clear.

It was a face identical to my own.

My sanity shattered in an instant. My retreat became slow and desperate. I wanted to escape, but she just stood there, gazing at me quietly.

"Do you understand now?" she spoke, her voice low and hollow, like an echo, or like another consciousness buzzing in my mind.

"You have always been writing, and I have always been reading."

"No," I shook my head, my voice hoarse. "That's impossible..."

"Why is it impossible?" A faint, almost pitying smile touched her lips.

"You thought you were the reader, you thought you were the author, but you are actually just a character that was written."

"From the moment you first saw that article, you were already in the story."

"Every word you wrote, I wrote."

"Every step you took was already arranged."

"You are not controlling the story; you are being controlled by it."

My mind buzzed, my thoughts violently shaking on the verge of collapse.

No.

Impossible.

I am... I am myself.

I have free will.

"Free will?" She seemed to hear my thoughts and chuckled softly. "Then why don't you stop?"

She slowly raised her hand and pointed to my computer screen.

—The next line had already filled itself in automatically.

"He finally understood that he had never written a single sentence."

"He had just followed the story's arrangement to get here."

"Just like the he from last time."

"Just like the he for next time."

I shot to my feet and backed away, my heart about to explode, but in the corner of my eye, I saw the text on the screen continue to grow—

"He stood up in terror, wanting to run, but he knew he could not escape this article."

"Because from the very beginning, there was no 'outside' to escape to."

"—Please continue writing."

19

"What... what do you want me to do?" I managed to ask, my voice trembling.

"It's simple," she tilted her head slightly, a hint of pity in her eyes. "You have to keep writing."

"Until the next you appears."

I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. A cold terror wrapped around me like a spider's web.

Her figure gradually became transparent, as if merging with the screen, with the text, with the very article being written.

I stiffly looked down at the keyboard.

My fingers placed themselves on it, beyond my control.

Then, I typed the last sentence—

"He sat down and began to write again."

—Please continue writing.

20

My fingers trembled slightly, but the letters I typed on the keyboard were without hesitation, as if my consciousness had already detached from this body, as if my every action had been preordained, and I was merely following a set path to complete an ending 'it' had long since written.

But... who was doing the writing?

Was it me? The girl? Or some higher author?

My gaze fell upon the screen. The last line in the document seemed to stare back at me, tearing my sanity apart word by word—

"He sat down and began to write again."

No, this isn't right... this isn't just a story, this is... this is...

My breathing quickened, my ears filled with the roar of my own blood, but just then, the light from the screen suddenly became blinding, and the entire room was swallowed by a deathly white glow.

21

Then—a new passage of text appeared on the screen.

No, did I type it?

No, was it generating itself?

My eyes were glued to the screen as letters appeared one by one, each one as if someone were controlling my consciousness, expressing for me the truth I could not admit—

"He finally understood that he was not the only he."

"Before him, countless hes had sat in this very spot, written the same story, and fallen into the same loop."

"And now, this story is being read by you."

—you?

My fingertips froze. A chill ran down my spine as I stared at this line, unable to continue for a long moment.

This wasn't written for me... no, this sentence wasn't written for me at all!

It was written for—the you who is reading this story.

22

You are reading, aren't you?

You've been drawn in by the story, holding your breath, reading word by word, trying to solve its mystery, trying to find the truth, trying to figure out—"What on earth is going on?"

Do you remember how you opened this article?

Do you remember where you started reading from?

Or did you just suddenly find—that you were already reading.

Just as I suddenly found I was already writing.

Just as the girl found she was already in the text.

You start to remember. To recall why you came here. To recall if you paused just now. To recall if you can truly remember every word, every scene from the beginning of the article...

And then, you begin to doubt.

—Are you reading this voluntarily?

—Did you freely scroll to this section?

—Are you... just the next part of the story?

You start to hold your breath, your eyes fixed on the screen, your heartbeat growing heavy.

You don't dare to scroll further, do you?

You're scared, aren't you?

But the story must continue, right?

—Please continue reading.

23

You look up, glancing around.

The room is just as you remember it—the walls, the window, the door, everything is normal, nothing out of place. But... you have a nagging feeling that something is wrong.

You try to recall the scene while you were reading, but you find that some details have become blurry—do you remember when you turned the page? Do you remember where you were when you saw this line of text?

Or... did you just follow the story's arrangement to get here?

—Just like me.

—Just like the girl.

—Just like everyone who has ever read this story.

You abruptly look down at your hands.

Your fingertips are still on the screen. The screen's light reflects on your face, and in your pupils, a new line of text is reflected—

"He finally realized that he, too, was in the story."

The sound of your heartbeat becomes immense, booming. Your gaze darts to the screen. You want to escape, but you find—

You can't stop.

Your eyes, uncontrollably, continue to read on.

You're in the story now, aren't you?

So, what should you do?

You already know the secret.

But the question is—will the next you also see this article?

Will they also reach this moment?

Will they also, like you, discover that they are already here?

—Please continue reading.

24

The light in the room seems to have dimmed a little.

You suddenly feel something approaching from behind you. The room still has its familiar furnishings, but you're starting to feel uncertain if someone is behind you.

You don't dare to turn around.

You don't even dare to move.

Because you know—if you turn around, you might see her.

She has always been there.

In the screen.

In the story.

Behind you.

She is waiting for you.

Waiting for you to discover that you have become a part of the story.

Waiting for you...

—Please continue reading.

25

Are you still thinking this is just a story?

Just an ordinary, experimental text about the fourth wall?

Then please, try a simple experiment:

Stop.

Try not to continue reading.

If you can truly do it, it means you are still in reality, you are still yourself, you are still in control of your own mind.

But...

You will find that you can't stop.

You are still reading on.

Your eyes still glide over every word, every sentence.

As if everything has already been arranged.

As if this story has already written you into it.

Do you still remember who you are?

Do you remember why you are reading this novel?

Are you starting to suspect...

That you are, already...

—Please continue reading.

26

You don't dare to turn off the screen.

You don't even dare to blink.

You're afraid that if you look away, she will appear on your screen.

Or perhaps, she is already there.

She has been watching you all along, behind you, in your shadow, in some corner of your mind, whispering softly—

"Please continue writing."

27

You're still reading, aren't you?

Even though you've realized something is wrong with all of this, even though you feel yourself being pulled into an existence you cannot comprehend, you still haven't stopped.

You thought you had a choice. You thought you could stop at any time, turn off the screen, leave this story, and return to your real life.

But you couldn't stop.

You are still reading.

What does that mean?

Does it mean you are truly free?

Or are you just following some unseen will, some pre-written textual path, continuing your actions?

Do you want to resist?

Try it. Look away. Stop reading the following content completely.

You can't.

You will still find yourself unable to resist continuing.

You will find that your eyes have been captured by this story.

Just like me.

Just like her.

Just like the countless yous who have read this story before.

28

The light from the screen flickered slightly.

Just a millisecond-long tremor, but you noticed it, didn't you?

You hold your breath. The screen continues to emit its cold light. Your room is silent, but...

You feel an inexplicable unease.

As if something is observing you.

It is not this story.

It is not her.

It is... something larger.

You don't dare to think about what it is.

You don't even dare to give it a name.

You know you are still in reality, but...

What is reality?

If "she" can awaken within a text, realize she is trapped in a story, realize she is a written existence...

Then what about you?

Have you ever thought about it?

Are you also just playing the role of you?

Everything you have experienced, your life, your choices... do they truly belong to you?

Or are they, too, just the arrangements of some author?

Have you noticed that every time you want to leave this story, your attention is drawn back?

As if the story won't let you leave.

As if you were never the reader from the start.

As if...

You are just another character.

29

Your room remains silent.

You don't know when it started, but you vaguely hear a sound.

The sound of a keyboard tapping.

Click, clack, click.

Someone is writing.

You hold your breath, your fingers trembling. You look around, but you are alone in the room.

But the sound of the keyboard... continues.

Click, clack, click.

You don't know where it's coming from, but it's getting closer.

Clearer.

As if...

It's coming from inside your mind.

As if...

It is writing you.

You lift your head and look at the screen.

In the document, new text is appearing.

You are not typing it.

It is writing itself.

30

You hold your breath, your gaze fixed on the last line of text on the screen.

What is it saying?

What has it written?

You slowly lower your head and see the words that have starkly appeared on the screen—

"He finally understood that the 'reader' never existed."

"Only 'characters,' who think they are reading."

"Who think they are free."

"Who think they are... real."

Do you still think you are in reality?

Or have you begun to suspect...

That you, too, have been written?

—Please continue writing.

31

Your fingers are frozen, your eyes feel like they are about to pop out of their sockets.

You can't believe it.

No, impossible—

You want to scream, to wake yourself up, to tell yourself this is all just a story, just a damn horror novel that can't possibly affect reality!

But a voice in the deepest part of your heart tells you that you can't lie to yourself anymore.

You are still reading, aren't you?

Even as your brain screams frantically for you to stop, your eyes will involuntarily continue to look, to scroll down, to continue—

To continue falling deeper.

Because you are already here.

Because from the very beginning, you could never escape.

32

Click, clack, click.

The sound of the keyboard... it continues.

It's not in the room.

It's in your mind.

It's not a sound, but something deeper—something that is writing you.

You whip your head around, holding your breath, trying to find any anomaly in the room, trying to prove that this is still your world, your reality.

But the more you look, the more unfamiliar it feels.

You stare at the objects on your desk and suddenly realize—

You don't remember arranging them like this.

You stare at the calendar on the wall and suddenly realize—

You don't remember what day it is.

You stare at the lines on your own palms and suddenly realize—

They don't look like yours.

Are you still sure you are you?

No, this is wrong, you have to find a way to wake up—

You reach out to turn off the computer screen, but your fingers stop in mid-air, unable to move.

Because you already know that if you turn off the screen, the story won't stop.

It will just continue to be written somewhere else.

It will just find another you to continue writing.

You're finally starting to get scared, aren't you?

You're finally starting to realize it, aren't you?

You are not reading.

You are being read.

You are being written.

You are a part of this article.

You are her next page.

You are...

33

The text on the screen continues to grow automatically. Your throat is dry, your fingers are cramping. You don't dare to blink, you don't dare to turn around.

But you can already feel it.

You can feel her right behind you, so close you can feel her breath, her shadow falling on your shoulder.

She has always been there.

She has been watching you read, waiting for you to understand, waiting for you to accept this ending.

Your heart is about to explode. You know what will happen next, you know she will lean down and whisper in your ear, you know she will—

An ice-cold hand slowly comes to rest on your shoulder.

You hold your breath, your eyes trembling violently. The text on the screen continues to write the final ending—

"You slowly turn your head and see her."

"She smiles, leans down to your ear, and says softly—"

"—Please continue writing."