I Prefer Books Than You, President!

Prologue

The room had long stopped resembling a place meant for living.

Books were everywhere—stacked in leaning towers against the walls, crammed into cabinets that could no longer close, spread open across the bed like abandoned conversations.

Loose pages fluttered whenever the electric fan sputtered to life, only to die again moments later, as if even it had grown tired of trying. Pens without caps bled ink onto the table. Markers rolled aimlessly on the floor, leaving faint streaks of color like forgotten thoughts.

By the window, a small cactus plant sat in a chipped ceramic pot. It had once been green.

Now, it was a dull, shriveled thing, its surface wrinkled and caved in, leaning toward the glass as if begging for something that would never come. The curtains were drawn tight, sealing the room away from sunlight, from time, from anything that might intrude. Including reality.

I, as always, lay sprawled across my bed, one leg dangling off the side, a book hovering inches above my face. The lights were off—had been off for hours, maybe days—but I didn’t need them. The faint glow from my phone, propped beside me, was enough. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, but I barely noticed.

I was reading another romance novel. Another story where people spoke too easily, loved too deeply, and lived too fully. I turned the page.

I just couldn’t stop. I had to finish it. There was a restless urgency crawling beneath my skin, a need to reach the end as quickly as possible, as if something would break if I didn’t. I didn’t know where that feeling came from, and honestly, I didn’t care enough to question it.

The faster I finished, the sooner I could start another. That was how it always worked. That was how I worked.

I shifted slightly, the mattress creaking beneath me. A book slid off the pile beside my arm and landed on the floor with a dull thud. I didn’t bother picking it up.

I’ve always been like this.

Holed up in my room like a prisoner—except I locked the door myself. I preferred it this way. The quiet. The predictability. The safety.

Out there… it was different.

Out there, people looked at you. Measured you. Judged you. Too quiet. Too strange. Too distant. Too much. Whatever I did, it was wrong somehow. So I stopped trying.

Since childhood, books had been better companions than people ever were. They didn’t expect anything from me. They didn’t misunderstand my silence or twist my words. They simply existed, waiting to be opened, waiting to be understood.

I didn’t like playing when I was younger. It was loud. Exhausting. Pointless. I didn’t like socializing either. Pretending to be someone I wasn’t drained me in ways I couldn’t explain.

So I didn’t. I studied. I went to school. I did what was necessary. Not for people. But for the libraries.

Those quiet, sacred spaces where the world softened and voices lowered and the only thing that mattered was the turning of pages. I could spend hours there—no, days—and no one would question it. No one would question me.

Even now, when I wasn’t surrounded by shelves, I found a way. My phone was filled to the brim with reading apps, novels downloaded and bookmarked and categorized. If I didn’t have a physical book in my hand, I had a digital one.

There was never a moment where I wasn’t reading. Never a moment where I had to be alone with myself.

I blinked slowly, my eyes stinging.

How long had it been?

I tried to recall the last time I slept. Nothing.

The last time I ate...?

Blank.

The last time I even drank water…

A faint, distant memory surfaced—lifting a glass, setting it down—but it felt detached, like it belonged to someone else.

My memory was foggy, like a dream I couldn’t quite wake up from. But the story in my hands was clear. Always clear. I turned another page.

The characters were confessing now, their emotions spilling out in perfect clarity, every word deliberate, every reaction meaningful. My chest tightened as I read, as if I could feel what they felt.

As if I were there. A sharp pain twisted in my stomach. I flinched.

It burned—sudden and intense, like something had clawed its way awake inside me. Hunger.

My body was reminding me of something I had ignored for too long. I groaned softly, lowering the book just enough to stare at the ceiling.

I don't want to get up...

The thought alone felt exhausting. Moving meant leaving the story. Leaving meant breaking the fragile world I had built around myself. But the pain didn’t fade. It grew.

Fine.

With a sigh, I marked my page—reluctantly—and set the book aside. My limbs felt heavier than they should have, as if gravity had increased without warning.

I pushed myself upright. The room tilted. I paused, gripping the edge of the mattress.

That was… new.

“Just stand up...!" I muttered under my breath, my voice dry and unfamiliar.

Slowly, carefully, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and planted my feet on the floor.

The moment I tried to stand, the world lurched violently. My vision blurred. Black spots danced at the edges. I stumbled forward, reaching for the wall, but my hand missed.

The floor rushed up to meet me. I collapsed. The impact barely registered. Instead, something else took over. Memories.

They flashed through my mind in rapid succession—too fast, too fragmented to grasp fully. A classroom. A library. A younger version of me sitting alone in a corner, book in hand.

Voices calling my name. Laughter—never mine. The quiet comfort of turning pages. The steady isolation that followed.

A life lived between lines of ink. A life observed, but never truly experienced. My breathing grew shallow.

The room dimmed further, shadows swallowing what little light remained.

So this is it…?

The thought drifted through my mind, oddly calm.

To think I’d die like this. Not in some grand, dramatic way. Not with people around me. Just… here.

On the floor of my room, surrounded by unfinished stories and scattered pages. My lips curved faintly.

How funny.

The darkness crept in, slow but certain, wrapping around my thoughts like a closing curtain. The last thing I saw was the cactus by the window. Still reaching. Still waiting.

And then, nothing.