It had been three days since Jag finished watching the anime.
And yet… her face lingered in his mind like a scent that refused to fade. Robin — the
fictional woman with sharp eyes and a voice that echoed confidence and care. She
wasn't just a character any more; she had somehow become a part of his reality.
Jag tried to distract himself.
He played music. He scrolled endlessly through social media. He even opened other
anime, hoping something else would grab his heart. But nothing worked. Every
female character felt dull, two-dimensional… lifeless. Only Robin lived on in his
imagination — as if she had stepped out of the screen and into his soul.
He laughed at himself sometimes.
"God… what's wrong with me? Falling for someone who doesn't even
exist? She's not real… she's just… Robin…"
But deep inside, it didn't feel silly at all.
One evening, while lying on his bed with the dim yellow light of his desk lamp
flickering, he opened his laptop again. He told himself he wouldn't — but his fingers
betrayed him. Within seconds, he was watching that scene. The one where Robin
looks up at the sky, her lips parting as if whispering a secret. That was the moment he
had fallen. He hit replay.
Again.
And again.
Then suddenly…
________________________________________
the screen flickered.
Jag sat up.
The audio glitched for a second, letting out a faint static hum. He paused the video,
thinking it might be a buffering issue. But the screen didn't freeze — it moved on its
own.The scene changed.
It wasn't part of the original episode.
The background was dark. A soft blue light shimmered like moonlight. Robin stood
there, but this time… she wasn't animated. She looked real. Her skin had texture.
Her eyes blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream.
And then she spoke.
"Jag..."
His breath caught in his throat.
Did he just hear his name?
The screen flashed.
Static buzzed louder.
Then everything went black.
Jag slammed his laptop shut and backed away from it, heart pounding like a drum.
"What the hell was that?!"
He stood in silence, too afraid to speak. For a moment, the room felt colder. Quieter.
Almost as if time had paused.
He didn't sleep that night.
The next morning,
when he woke up, he found something strange on his desk.
It was a small note. A real one.
Folded neatly. Sitting where his laptop had been.
With shaking fingers, he opened it.
Four words.
Written in clean, elegant handwriting.
"Not everything is fiction."