Waking up in a stranger's body? Not great.
Waking up in a loser's body? Even worse.
Waking up in a fictional simp noble who stalked a heroine and died like a mosquito?
That's just bullying.
I paced the room for the next hour, unsure whether to scream, throw something, or cry in the corner. I did all three. In that order. None of them helped.
The room smelled like a failed romance and expensive failure. Rose-scented cologne barely masked the scent of sweat and spilled wine. Papers littered the floor—half-baked love poems, practice letters, hand-drawn portraits of a girl who clearly wanted nothing to do with him.
No... with me now.
A shiver crawled down my spine.
Caleb Thorne. That was the name. A noble. Second son of House Thorne. Wealthy, irrelevant, vaguely attractive in the way a starving poet might be. And an obsessive admirer of Aris Valentine, one of the main heroines of the original story.
A heroine he "loved" so much, he watched her from afar. Wrote letters he never sent. Memorized her class schedule.
All while looking like the spiritual mascot of restraining orders.
I walked to the mirror again, slower this time, dreading the reflection like it might leap out and try to seduce me.
God.
If I weren't me, I'd bully me.
The body was fine—more than fine, honestly. Sharp jawline. High cheekbones. Tall, lean frame with the genetics of someone who should be swimming in women.
But then came the other details.
Shoulders hunched like a question mark. Bloodshot eyes. Greasy hair. Skin pale from too many days indoors. Clothes wrinkled, mismatched. A posture that practically screamed, "I have something to confess, please run."
This guy looked like he woke up and chose "permanently online."
"Seriously," I muttered, pulling at the collar of a crumpled white shirt, "I reincarnated into a hot guy and still managed to look like a Reddit thread."
It wasn't just pathetic. It was... insulting.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and let my head fall into my hands.
What was the point?
Why reincarnate me—me, of all people—just to drop me into the story as this? No special skills. No power-ups. No tragic revenge plot to justify my edge. Just a guy who got friendzoned before he even said hello.
Was this divine punishment?
Was there just some bored author writing ironic comedy behind a screen?
My hands trembled slightly. Not from fear. From shame.
Not even mine.
I was being humiliated by secondhand embarrassment.
That's when the memories started leaking through.
Not a dramatic wave of pain and flashbacks like you read in stories—just... flickers. Like channel-surfing through someone else's life.
—Her laugh from across the hall.
—A moment where she said "thank you" and he clutched that word like it was sacred scripture.
—Watching her dance at a noble banquet, eyes wide, breath held.
—Writing her name again. And again. And again.
Obsession. Unfiltered. Raw. Pathetic.
I had seen people simping online, sure—but this guy? He made simping an Olympic sport. Bronze medalist in stalking. Gold in self-pity. Lifetime achievement award in emotional constipation.
I grit my teeth.
"This ends now."
Not the story—God knows I'm probably stuck here. But this version of me?
He's dead.
Let the story's plot begin. Let the protagonist rise. Let Aris have her harem of charming love interests. That's fine.
But I'll be damned if I stay this clown in the corner scribbling poetry like it's going to earn me her attention.
I'm not the protagonist.
I'm not the villain.
I'm not even a side character worth remembering.
But I'm me.
And I'm going to survive.