The pitiful whimpers of anguish and agony slowly faded away into dull acceptance. She'd expected at least some form of desperation or pleading, preferably both, yet it was clear that wasn't happening. What else could she expect from he whom was meant to be the purest, the holiest, though? To beseech such a dreg queen quite like her was probably far below his worth.

After all, how about the fables she had heard of what he had went through?”

She jerked her thoughts out of this stupor. She hated it whenever her hostess would head down this spiral of being goody-goody; it made her head spin and sent her bullet-like contemplations into a temperament of turmoil, and what was once a deadly, serrated haruta blade into no more than lulling cotton candy that was even more useless than her godforsaken parents.

Part One - 392 words

The Chosen One

Strengths: There's something so cool about a character who has been chosen by destiny. The burden of fate, the battle against insurmountable odds—it's the sort of tale that feels mythic. A Chosen One who is well-written will have readers cheering for them, not only because they must succeed, but because they become more than the job in the process, and fight hard to deserve their victories. It’s a perfect setup for deep character exploration, questioning fate vs. free will, and the burden of expectations.

Cons: If written half-heartedly, the Chosen One cliche is tired. If their quest is too simplistic, if they never face a struggle, then what's the use? Horribly, it can make the supporting characters irrelevant, only there to amplify the main character's quest. And if everything is already determined, do they even get to make choices? There's a thin line between a great hero and a plot device in disguise of a prophecy.

Enemies-to-Lovers

Pros: THIS IS MY FAVOURITE EE <3 It is so much fun to read. The tension, the banter, the creeping recognition that the very person they loved to loathe is now the one that truly gets them. This is a trope built for character work—two human beings tearing down barriers, goading each other, learning ways about themselves that they never intended to. And done well? Each look, every touch, each near-citation of passion is everything.

Cons: When the relationship is toxic and begins in cruelty rather than rivalry, things can become problematic quickly. And sometimes the development from enemies to lovers happens so quickly that it doesn't feel earned. Since this trope is so ubiquitous, if not executed with thoughtfulness, it comes across as formulaic and predictable.

Found Family

Pros: There are few things that touch deeper than love that isn't inherent—it's a choice. Found family tales are cozy, heartwarming, and full of characters who uplift one another in ways no one else ever has (cozy <3) They develop some of the most wonderful dynamics, founded on loyalty, acceptance, and history.

Cons: The downside? It can become a bit too tidy. If conflicts are resolved too easily, or the characters all slip into cliché roles (the grump, the mom friend, the gremlin of chaos (yes thrillians this is for you)). Found families have to be complicated, fraught with tension and evolution, not a tidy little team of superheros who lean on each other.

Part Two - 819 words

The first time I saw him, I was standing in the subway. My reflection in the glass doors should have shuddered with the train’s arrival, but it didn’t. It stood still, watching.

Not me. Him.

I stepped forward, and so did he. But where my coat was tattered at the hem, his was pristine. Where my eyes were rimmed with sleepless nights, his were clear, bright. Perfect.

Then the train howled into the station, and he was gone.

The second time, it was at the bodega on 14th. The bell over the door rang twice—once when I walked in, once when he did. The fluorescent lights were cold and buzzing, flickering between us like morse code.

The cashier’s eyes flickered up. “Back so soon?”

I froze.

The register dinged open. He handed the man a five-dollar bill. The same bill I’d just pulled from my pocket.

I left without buying anything.

The third time, he smiled.

He was standing outside my building, leaning against the streetlamp, the glow cutting his cheekbones into something angular and sharp. He lifted a hand in greeting, like we were old friends, like we were brothers, like he was the reflection that had finally broken free of the glass.

I did not smile back.

But I walked closer.

And closer.

And closer.

Until we were only inches apart, until I could see the place where his hair curled at the nape of his neck the way mine did, where his lips pressed together in that same uncertain way, where his hands—his hands—

My hands.

He lifted a finger and touched my cheek, and I felt it.

Felt it like my own skin.

Felt it like the touch of something inevitable.

Felt it like drowning, like fate, like a mirror with no glass.

And when I finally opened my mouth to ask who are you, what are you, why do you have my face, he only smiled again.

The streetlamp flickered.

And he was gone.

The fourth time, I woke up to the sound of knocking.

It was faint, just a tap against the wall, as if someone was testing the strength of my patience. I tried to ignore it, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders, but the knocking didn’t stop. It grew louder, more insistent, like a heartbeat against my skull.

I stood, dragging myself to the door, and found it open. Just slightly.

A crack, wide enough to swallow the air whole.

I peered through, not expecting anyone. But he was there—on the other side.

No words. No smile.

I didn’t speak.

He didn’t either.

Then he stepped forward, into my space, into the hollow I had been filling with too many restless thoughts. His feet moved silently, like water flowing over stone, until we were face to face, inches apart once more.

“You know,” he said, and his voice was the sound of wind on cold glass, “this has to happen.”

I stared, a cold sweat creeping down my spine. His breath smelled like cedarwood and crushed leaves, like the end of autumn—warm, fading.

“You’re me.” I whispered, almost too quietly for him to hear. But he did.

“I’m you,” he confirmed, his lips curling into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes were darker than mine, swirling with something ancient and familiar. “But also—” His hand brushed my cheek again, like an echo I couldn’t silence, “—you're me.”

My pulse thrummed in my throat, my vision blurring around the edges, and the walls felt smaller, like the room was closing in.

I stepped back, but his hand shot out, catching my wrist with a force I couldn't fight.

“You think you can run from yourself? You think you can escape a reflection that doesn’t exist?” He grinned wider, his teeth sharp, jagged—more than human, more than anything I recognized.

I wrenched my arm away, stumbling backward, my breath shallow. “I—don't—”

“You never know,” he said, voice soft now, almost tender, “what’s real. What’s you. What’s me. What’s us." He stepped to the side, his form shifting like smoke, like a trick of light.

And in that moment, I understood. I wasn’t running from a ghost, or a stranger. I was running from myself—running from the hollow space where I had once been, where I no longer existed.

I wasn’t me.

Not entirely. Not anymore.

He was me, but only in the way that a shadow holds the shape of light without ever being able to touch it.

And then he was gone, melting into the night, his footsteps silent.

I was left alone in my apartment, the door still open, the moonlight casting long, sharp shadows across the floor. And all I could do was close my eyes, and wonder—if I stayed still long enough, would he return? Would the reflection finally, fully, claim me?

Or would I forever be chasing something I could never outrun?

Part Three - 818 words

Liora had always known something was wrong. The mark on her wrist, sharp as a wound, pulsing with a light that no one else could see. It burned like fire, yet no one ever mentioned it, not aloud, at least. Not with their tongues. But their eyes? Always on her. Always waiting.

The chosen one, they called her. The savior, the one who would end the darkness. It was written, foretold in ancient scrolls and whispered in the wind.

It was a prophecy that had been passed down for centuries, her name etched into the very bones of the world. She had been born for this. She had been told she was the one.

But it had never felt like salvation. It had always felt like something else—something colder, darker.

They expected her to be the light, the one to mend everything, like a hero from a tale. But every time she looked at the mark, every time she closed her eyes and felt the heat against her skin, a voice within her—deep and unsettling—whispered a different story.

Tonight, the whisper was louder.

The wind was unusually cold, biting at her face as she stood on the edge of the cliff, gazing out at the valley. Beneath the vast sky, the earth seemed to be waiting. Waiting for her to act. Waiting for the prophecy to unfold.

But Liora was weary. Weary of pretending. Weary of the elders chanting her name, weary of feeling like she was suffocating under their expectations. She was supposed to rise. She was supposed to dispel the shadows, overcome the challenge, bring them peace. But each night, the words, the promises, felt more fragile, like paper dissolving in water.

She looked at the mark. The curved symbol. The intricate lines within it, stark and persistent. She had spent her life trying to ignore it, letting the world believe she was the answer. But her destiny wasn't to rescue them. Not her, not the girl they had turned into a legend.

It wasn’t hope. It was something else. And she was tired of running from it.

Then, the voice. Low. Deep. Unwavering.

“You believed you were the one to bring them peace?” it echoed, shaking her to her core.

Liora's heart pounded.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. The voice resonated in her mind, twisting her thoughts.

“No,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Yes,” the voice insisted. “You are the one. But not as they imagine.”

She wanted to flee, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t move. The wind held her captive. The sky above her swirled, the clouds darkening, more intense than night. The valley below seemed to stretch endlessly, until the earth itself felt like it was closing in.

Her pulse quickened. “What do you mean?” she managed, her voice barely audible against the wind.

The voice was closer now, sharp and cold. “You were always meant to disrupt. You were always meant to bring an end. The prophecy was never a tale of hope. It was a story of change.”

The air felt heavy. Her skin felt tight. Her breath caught in her throat, as if the words had taken her breath away. She stumbled back, feeling a cold sensation.

“No,” she gasped, tears threatening to fall. “I'm not… I'm not the one who ends it.”

“Yes,” the voice growled. “You were never meant to bring peace. You were meant to transform. The shadows will return, but not because of anyone else. Because of you. The prophecy was a deception, Liora. You were never the hero. You were always the catalyst.”

The ground shifted beneath her. She looked down. The earth seemed to open, revealing a darkness that seeped through, rising like smoke.

Liora's knees weakened. The mark burned hotter, as if trying to overwhelm her. She gripped her wrist, trying to ease the sensation, but it only intensified. Her chest tightened.

She was trembling. Her breath was shallow, but she didn’t look away. She couldn’t.

Her world had always been confined—too neatly packaged in the idea that she was the savior, the light. That she could mend everything. But this? This was the truth. This was what no one had told her. The thing she had never wanted to acknowledge.

The prophecy wasn’t about hope. It wasn’t about rising up. It was about facing change, about witnessing transformation.

And she was the spark.

“Why?” she whispered, struggling with the words. “Why me?”

The voice echoed, cold and empty, like the last whisper of a fading light.

“Because the world always needs someone to understand. Someone to face the turning point. You were always the one, Liora. You were the one chosen for the change.”

The cliff edge seemed to extend before her, endless. She felt like she was falling into the shadows, falling into the prophecy, falling into the truth she had denied for so long.

And now there was no escape.

Part Four - 700 words

She was born under a sky that no one remembered. A sky that belonged to no one. There were no bright lights the night she arrived, just an endless expanse of darkness. The world had overlooked her before it ever knew her name.

“I’m the Chosen One,” she whispered to herself as she stood at the edge of the cliff, her hands pressed against the cold stone.

Her name was Isa. And she was supposed to bring them hope and protect their kingdom.

But that was before she knew. Before she understood the true meaning of the prophecy.

They told her she was the one, their last hope. The one to dispel the shadows, the one to restore the light. The day she was born was significant, recorded in their ancient texts. They had chosen her. And she had believed them.

But now, standing here, gazing into the vastness of the world, the city she had sworn to help lying in disarray below her, she wasn’t sure what was more unsettling: the deception of the prophecy or her own self-deception.

“You’re not what they say you are,” a voice said from behind her. Cold. Familiar.

She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“What do you want, Aiden?” Isa’s voice trembled in the silence.

Aiden stepped into her view, his cloak a dark silhouette against the tumultuous sky. His eyes, once so vibrant, had dimmed, as if the warmth inside him had long since faded. Isa had once thought she saw the same warmth in herself, but now… now it was just a faint echo.

“I want to help you,” he said. “But you’re not listening. You never listened.”

Isa swallowed hard. She had to stay focused. She had a choice now. A chance to alter things. She wasn’t the one they thought she was. She had been shaped by their expectations, molded into the tool they needed, and she had allowed it. She had believed in the light, in the possibility of something better. But there was no light. No hope.

“Aiden,” she said, her voice barely a thread now. “You know what I have to do. The prophecy—”

”The prophecy was a deception,“ he interrupted, his voice sharp, cutting through the night air like a blade. ”It’s not about bringing hope, Isa. It’s about control. About influence. They knew what would happen, and they used you. You were their instrument. You were never meant to be their hero.“

The words landed with a heavy impact. Isa felt her knees weaken, but she remained standing. She couldn’t fall. Not yet.

”You’re wrong,“ she whispered, but she didn’t believe it. She had once believed, but not now.

Aiden stepped closer, his hands extended, palms open. ”You don’t have to do this, Isa. Come with me. We can change this, together.“

She shook her head, her hair whipping around her face. ”No. It’s already too late for that. You… You don’t understand.“

Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms. There was no turning back now. She couldn’t undo the choices she had already made. Couldn’t ignore the truth she had learned the hard way.

”I’m not the Chosen One,“ she said, the words like a solemn promise, like a final declaration. ”I never was.“

”No,“ Aiden said, his voice softer now. ”You were never chosen to bring hope. You were chosen to bring change.“

And that was it. That was the moment. The moment when the world shifted and the truth flooded in, filling every space. The prophecy was a deception. She wasn’t here to bring hope. She was here to bring transformation.

”I’m sorry," she whispered, but it was a promise she couldn’t keep. She had already changed everything she could.

Isa turned toward the edge of the cliff, her heart no longer beating in time with the world. She could feel it now—the pull of the unknown. She could hear the whispers of those who had come before her, those who had carried the same weight of altered destinies.

And when she stepped forward, the world shifted. The ground moved beneath her feet, and the shadows reached. It was an absolutely beautiful sight.