The Nerdy Young Lady’s Rental Boyfriend chapter 1

1 – Epilogue

It wasn’t until I turned twenty that I realized I was starting to age.

Some might think it’s a foolish story if they were to hear it. But it was true for me. From the age of five, when I began to recall my first memories, until I turned nineteen and completed my physical growth, I had no knowledge of aging.

Of course, I might have known superficially. But that was merely in my head. I didn’t truly understand the concept deep within my heart. After the bell rang tonight, I would be another year older. After eating rice cake soup, I would become a little more grown-up. That was the extent of my childish understanding.

The end of that childish understanding came around my twenties. It was when distinct changes started to occur in my body. In a way, one could say that my adolescence began when I turned twenty. Looking back, my childhood seemed so long and painfully relentless.

It was only after a deep gold mark was etched on my wrist that I turned twenty-one.

Just as a tree marks the passing of time with age rings, the scar on my wrist deepened as the years went by. At twenty-two, there were two. At twenty-three, there were three. With each additional scar, I matured further and became more of an adult.

That meant I no longer needed to rely on anyone else, and it also meant that I finally became independent.

At first, I felt a sense of liberation. But it didn’t take long for that liberation to turn into emptiness. The surrounding darkness didn’t fill the void in my heart; instead, it pressed down on my skin, causing unpleasant emotions to rise and settle as dark shadows beneath my eyes.

If I stayed still, I knew that the hard-fought freedom I had found would be consumed by those emotions. So I began searching for something to fill my heart. Not alcohol or drugs, like my mother. I wanted to avoid something that would confine me again. I preferred something that was more enjoyable and could be discarded if I wanted.

That’s how I found that novel. For Elise.

When I discovered that novel, with no cover or views, I was inexplicably drawn to it and clicked on the first episode. As soon as I read the first episode, I understood why it wasn’t popular. It was a typical villainess novel, with a predictable story where the kind protagonist defeats the villain and wins the love of the crown prince.

But I became strangely engrossed in the story. Even though I knew exactly what would happen. Even though it was such a predictable and common story, I couldn’t help but immerse myself in it. There was only one reason.

I began to feel an inexplicable empathy for the villainess in the story.

She was the complete opposite of me. Yet, I felt a sense of sympathy for her without reason. Was it because she couldn’t become an adult? Was it because I saw my own past self in the image of that child, desperately wanting to be in her parents’ hearts? Or was it because I saw the hidden scars on her unwritten wrists?

So every day at eight o’clock, when the novel was uploaded, I approached the monitor as if possessed and immersed myself in the story. Even though I knew she wouldn’t find happiness. Even though I watched her take step by step towards her destined downfall. As I watched, episode by episode, with a heavy heart, the novel’s views began to skyrocket. Well, of course. I must have watched every episode dozens of times a day.

Then, at some point, I started supporting the novel. Sending money for topics I didn’t dare comment on. Hoping that the author might give the villainess even a slight chance with the money I sent.

But even so, the ending didn’t change.

The kind protagonist overcame hardships and won love, while the villainess, who had been overly obsessed with the crown prince, met a tragic end. Some might call it just desserts or poetic justice, but when I saw her moments of downfall, my heart was torn to shreds. That’s how she died. That’s how it ended.

And that novel also came to an end.

A futile conclusion gave birth to pointless hopes. Could there be a sequel? Could there be an epilogue? I moved the mouse madly, craving nonexistent stories. Of course, my wishes were never granted. No matter how much support I sent, the author remained unresponsive.

I should have done drugs instead. Then I wouldn’t have faced the mental devastation. It was my mistake to underestimate mere novels. The stories lingering in my mind left more severe withdrawal symptoms than any alcohol or drugs. That’s why, even though it hasn’t been a year, there were days when I almost slit my wrist. This time, vertically. If Ari hadn’t intervened, who knows if it would have happened for real.

In the end, I locked myself in darkness once again, spending each day as if I were an unborn child, huddled in a corner all day. Occasionally, refreshing the faintly glowing monitor screen.

It was one month exactly after the novel ended.

As if in a lie, the next part came up.

In my head.

Unforgettable. Along with the first sentence.

The birth of a saint and the rebirth of a villain. Which is greater?

“Yes…?”

I quietly muttered in a heavy voice. At first, I didn’t understand what the situation was. But soon, instinct, not my head, began explaining this eerie situation. The finished novel. The absolute being that came one day. And me, the sole reader of that novel. Isn’t this a cliché situation?

Late in realizing the situation, another question was thrown at me.

The fall of a saint and the downfall of a villain. Which is more miserable?

The dry voice chilled and a smile formed on my lips. I couldn’t easily open my mouth, not because I didn’t know the answer but because I couldn’t understand the intention. The answer that couldn’t be placed on a protest slipped through my throat.

As I hesitated for a while, the second question flowed.

The demise of a saint and the plunge of a villain. Which is more pitiful?

The parched voice resonated chillingly, and a smile crept onto my lips. I knew the answer too well, not through logic but through experience.

Still unable to grasp the intention behind the question, I couldn’t refrain from delivering the already assigned answer. Slowly, I opened my mouth and, along with fleeting memories, uttered just one word.

“I want to become Yuna.”

…

Yes.

The fact that she understood my intention was evident in her voice, leaving a brief response. And very slowly, my consciousness began to be drawn somewhere else. Only then did the faint figure of the goddess facing me begin to appear. Clad in black from head to toe, with black hair covering her, and that smile towards me, I closed my eyes in that moment of capturing it in my mind.

And thus, I became the villainess in the novel.

When I opened my eyes, I was in a classroom I had never seen before. No, perhaps I should say it was a classroom I had seen dozens of times. Half of the people looking at me had fearful eyes, while the rest looked at me with admiration. Just from that, I sensed when I had transmigrated. Probably the very early stages, considering there were still followers following me.

That meant there was still a chance for my ending to change.

No. There was a chance for her ending to change.

For the first time, hope began to well up in my entire body. In my previous life, immersed in despair, I paradoxically felt the concept of hope by transmigrating into a novel that threw me into the last abyss. Finally, I can change it. I can change it so that she doesn’t meet doom with my own hands.

That fact became such a strong motivation that guided me.

If I were an ordinary person, I might have enjoyed life as a noble lady. Wielding immense wealth and fame, living foolishly like a fool.

But I was different. I knew her misfortune better than anyone, and I, who understood and empathized with it, knew that I shouldn’t act that way. Therefore, I reminded myself.

There is no bad ending now.

Not even a need for a happy ending.

Just wishing for a life that is extraordinarily ordinary.

With my determination, I abandoned the life as a villainess and started living as an ordinary student. I swore to discard all the wealth, fame, and opportunities, and began removing the tags attached to the novel one by one.

Villainess.

Revenge.

And, romance.

I had never experienced love in the first place, and the villainess, having lost everything by clinging to love, didn’t need those two words in my story. No, the concept of my story itself wasn’t necessary anymore because I no longer had the intention to be in the spotlight of this novel.

So now, I intend to pass the role of the narrator to someone else. This might be our last farewell. Because I won’t appear in the story of that other person. Probably, in the first sentence of his story that continues below, I won’t make an appearance either.

It’s a bit lonely, but it’s okay.

After all, loneliness is a more familiar emotion to me than air.

…Well then.

Goodbye.

Lately, something seems off with the antagonist, Youngae.