Miss, stop committing suicide

Chapter 4

When did I realize the cookie jar was nearly empty?

Perhaps it was when the faint scent of cocoa began to rise with every breath I took.

If I had to make an excuse, I was simply very hungry.

Just a glass of water to go with the cookies, eaten quickly but not desperately.

“Things got tangled, that’s all. I just disliked you.”

Why couldn’t I say anything back then?

Instead of delving into some philosophical reflection about identity, I think back to the emotions I felt at the time.

A swirl of stubbornness, jealousy, misery, and inferiority—all of it weighed heavily on my lips, pulling them shut as if they might rip apart if I opened them even slightly.

Truthfully, the cookies were delicious.

But I wanted to say they weren’t.

Looking back, it all feels unfair.

Parents dead, family wealth dissolved into thin air, no allies to speak of—and all because I happened to be reading a romance novel.

As a result, the moment I step outside this room, I’m met with pointing fingers, whispers, and mocking laughter.

And more often than not, it goes beyond just that.

I wish I had some kind of advantage here.

But no, I don’t. If I did, it would have been apparent from the start.

Unless I had some overpowered, unshakable confidence—then maybe.

The other day, I craved oolong tea. Today, I want to listen to music.

Music that, with just a few taps, could be played effortlessly.

If only there were a piano in this room.

Given the patchwork of overly convenient settings slapped together in this world, having a piano in here might not be too far-fetched.

The light in the room began to fade.

It’s as if the absence of the protagonist means there’s no need for light to shine here.

Of course, it’s just that the day has ended, and night has fallen.

But lamenting my unfortunate circumstances feels more fitting than reflecting on how the moon has risen to replace the sun.

Night, with its darkness, provides the perfect backdrop for gloomy, melodramatic thoughts.

And there’s one simple solution—falling asleep.

Dragging myself toward the bed, I collapsed onto it.

Even moving this frail body feels like such a burden.

Tomorrow won’t bring any improvements, but I still…hope for something better.

Hope. Is that too grand a word?

I simply wish for a slightly better tomorrow as I drifted off to sleep.

But of course, that was wishful thinking.

***

The morning was surprisingly bright.

I had forgotten to close the curtains, so sunlight flooded the room.

“Ugh.”

As I took a step, trying to get up, I cut my foot on a shard of glass I hadn’t cleaned up.

Even though the sound of the glass shattering had been faint, it had still scattered everywhere.

I guess no one came by to clean up last night.

Oh, right—I hadn’t left the room.

I hadn’t collapsed, either.

In this academy dormitory, the accommodations were like staying in a hotel. 

Occasionally, someone would come in to clean the room, replace the towels, and restock basic provisions—usually cheap tea leaves easily accessible to commoners.

Vivian probably stays in a dorm too, so why did she clean up the glass herself?

I suppose she just saw it lying around, thought it was dangerous, and decided to do something about it.

At least she handled the bigger pieces.

Even if it was ultimately pointless, I hadn’t even said thank you.

Was I unable to?

I don’t know if it’s that I can’t ask for help, or that I don’t want to. Maybe it’s just who I am.

The shard had embedded itself deep in my skin, making it difficult to pull out with just my fingers.

Hobbling over to the drawer, I took out a small knife, rinsed it quickly with hot water, and brought it to my foot.

Slice.

With some force, I cut into the skin and pried the glass out.

The sensation sent a shiver down my spine, but leaving it in would only make it worse, so I had to deal with it immediately.

It hurt.

The blood dripping onto the floor wasn’t bright red—it was darker, almost black.

I could clean it all up with magic, but instead, I pressed a white cloth to my foot and slipped on a pair of rayon stockings.

It looked slightly unnatural, but with shoes covering them, it wouldn’t matter.

Savoring the soft texture against my skin, I grabbed my bag and walked toward the entrance to leave the room.

And I opened the door.

Just one step—but why does it feel so heavy?

Still, I mustered the courage to take that step.

The long hallway stretched ahead of me.

I saw other students passing by.

They were probably whispering about me.

“Poor thing.”

“Serves her right, though.”

“Why does she still walk around with her head held high?”

“Why hasn’t she left the academy yet?”

They didn’t say it to my face, but I could imagine it clearly.

I told myself I wouldn’t let it bother me and headed for the classroom.

The classes I attended were mostly about common sense or practical magic usage.

I didn’t need to take exams or participate actively.

While commoners were tested every month and expelled if they didn’t meet the standards, I only needed to show up and be present.

It’s why, in the novel, the protagonist was able to skip classes and go off to drive the plot forward.

The academy—while supposedly an institution—was more like a convenient way to gather the children of nobles in one place, effectively holding them hostage.

Thankfully, I made it to the classroom without running into anyone.

Unfortunately, as soon as I entered, I came face to face with someone I least wanted to see.

“Well, well, what a surprise, Miss Erica.

It’s been so long! I was starting to worry since I hadn’t seen you around for a while.”

“…Lydia.”

Villainesses in romance novels typically have followers.

These followers flatter their leader, cater to their moods, and act according to their whims, bringing them joy without needing explicit instructions.

Of course, they expect some kind of reward—status, pride, or a sense of importance.

But if their leader falls from grace and becomes pitiful, those same followers are more likely to trample on them, enjoying the humiliation rather than showing sympathy.

Lydia was no exception.

“You’re not upset about that little prank last time, are you?

Surely that’s not why you’ve been skipping class.”

“Little prank,” she says, as if locking someone in a closet for hours and forcing them to eat garbage wasn’t crossing the line.

“Oh, I see you’ve given up getting angry.

That’s progress! Keep giving up little by little, and I’m sure you’ll come to agree with me eventually.

Oh, by the way, I heard an interesting rumor…”

She smiled wickedly, her expression one of mock surprise, clearly intending to provoke me.

“They say the Duke of Mecklenburg didn’t die in an accident.

Apparently, they found him hanging from a rope.

What’s more, people are whispering about treason. An accident, huh? Who would believe that? Don’t you agree, Miss Erica?”

She was talking about my father.

Of course.

Despite trying to distance myself from these memories, my head was filled with them.

The gifts he gave me on my birthday, his occasional kind words, the calm atmosphere of family meals—those memories clung to my mind like a sticky residue, turning him into a beloved father figure.

I could lash out, grab something, and hit her with it.

But what then?

In this place, no one would care about violence breaking out.

Even the teachers wouldn’t intervene.

In fact, they might even ask the student to leave the classroom to avoid disrupting others.

It’s absurd.

The nobles are gathered here like pieces on a chessboard, but no one is managing the board.

It’s no wonder there are occasional deaths among the students, swept under the rug without much concern.

If I struck her, I’d be inviting more trouble—multiple people would gang up on me.

But despite telling myself all this, my hands trembled uncontrollably.

Because I was angry.

Not wanting to show it, I pressed my bleeding foot firmly to the ground and clasped my hands tightly to hide the shaking.

Yet my inaction, my silent endurance of her insults, only made me angrier at myself.

“How remarkable, to stay so composed after hearing all this.

The other kids you bullied used to scream their lungs out at just the mention of their parents.

Anyway, it’s been lovely catching up.”

She laughed and walked off to her seat, opening a book as if nothing had happened.

Soon, the other students would arrive, and she wouldn’t humiliate me publicly.

She was the type to maintain her reputation carefully.

As for me, I wouldn’t go around broadcasting my mistreatment either.

Why not?

Perhaps it’s the useless pride and stubbornness lingering in this white-haired girl’s heart.

Maybe it’s her last shred of dignity.