When Words Run Out of Time

⚠️  TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️ 

this chapter contains language/imagery (idk what to call it tbh) that may trigger feelings of discomfort or dysphoria 

viewer discretion is advised 

I'm the self-insert.

Not the hero, not the leader—just the closest echo of someone else. It's weirdly grounding, knowing that much for sure.

I groan, pulling the blanket farther up over my head. What even is this. Too much to handle, that's what.

First, Samiyah left. About 3 days of excruciating anxiety, and then she returns. Then we find out our writer is a suicidal teenager and I've basically been based off of them.

抖阴社区r– wait, no. Not 抖阴社区r. Not anymore. I guess I should start referring to them by their name. Or, well, one of them.

'Jaiden' is an obvious no, that'd be too confusing. I'd like to continue thinking of it as my name. 'Jamie' is nice, but it still feels too close to the previous option. If I remember correctly, Samiyah said their readers typically know them as Zaire, so... I guess I'll go with that, then.

It really does make me wonder, though. How similar are we?

Do they like to dye their hair weird colors? Do they have an article of clothing they wear nonstop? Do they spend the majority of their free time procrastinating? Do they have a playlist with absolutely no cohesive theme? Do they find talking to people hard? As hard as I do?

How much more do we share than just a name?

Great. Existential crisis unlocked. And now I'm overheating. My skin feels sticky, like I'm wearing a layer that doesn't belong to me. Everything itches in a way I can't scratch—like my own body sits just a little wrong on my bones.

I kick off the blankets, but the feeling stays. I heave a heavy sigh and reach for my phone. Maybe scrolling for hours on end will help me take my mind off things.

I wish I could crawl up into the attic or wedge myself behind the couch instead—anywhere dark and high or small and hidden. The glow of the screen feels too bright, too loud.

But of course I can't just be left alone. Oh no, that'd be too easy. There's a knock on my door and my dad comes in.

"Hey, come unload the dishwasher," He says. I begrudgingly comply.

Unfortunately, this new task does little to help me get my mind off of things. The gears in my mind won't stop turning. The clatter of plates makes my ears twitch—not really, but it feels like they should.

Sometimes it feels like I'm just a copy. A knock-off. A softer version of someone real. How much of me is actually me—and how much is just them, in different clothes?

Is anything about me mine? What if I'm just a glitchy reflection—Zaire with a filter over the lens? What if I'm not a person, just a product?

I'm so lost in thought, I fumble and almost drop one of the glass cups. It takes all my willpower and remembrance of my parents' presence not to yell 'shit'.

"Careful, _____," My dad tells me.

That's not my name.

My shoulders tense. There's this itching under my skin, a restlessness in my spine, like something inside me wants to twist away, bolt out the window, climb.

It hits me like it always does—sharp, quiet, and impossible to explain. I feel my face twist into something I can't afford to let slip. So I shove it down, where everything else goes.

Finally, I finish with the dishes and am able to escape and retreat back into my cave like a hermit.

"Gracias, mija," My mom calls after me.

I'm not your daughter.

I hear it all the time. That word. That name. Like they've built a version of me in their heads and stuck with it—no matter how hard I try to break free.

I wish they saw me. I wish they wanted to see me.

I shut the door behind me and instinctively scan the room for the darkest corners—closet, under the desk, behind the curtain. I want to curl up somewhere hidden, press my body into the walls and just... stay.

Flopping down on my bed, the thoughts of Wri– no, Zaire, return. If I am just a copy of them, there's a lost sense of originality, identity, general reality... Anyways. There's a bad side, but... could there also be a good one?

If you really think about it, if I'm the most similar to them, then wouldn't we share problems? It's a bit of a strange way of looking at things, but it could offer some comfort.

Comfort that... I'm not the only one struggling with the things that I am. I mean, obviously there are others, but it's easier to imagine when it's someone you know. Or, well, know of, I guess.

Do they also struggle with gender dysphoria? Social anxiety? General anxiety? Depression? Overthinking? Trying to balance over and understimulation? Never being able to fully understand the emotions that they feel?

If they do...

Then I guess I'm not just a shadow.

I'm someone who feels too much, thinks too hard, breaks too easy.

Just like they do.

And maybe that means I'm not alone in the ways that matter most.

Maybe I'm what helps make them feel that way, too. 

hai pookies

in all complete honesty I don't have much to say about this chapter

I mean it was written kinda on impulse, originally I was only gonna have like 2 more chapters and the epilogue but then I was like "it feels like weird to reveal Jaiden as the self insert and then just not show how he feels about it" so I was like fuck it lets write this 

shorter chapter than usual but I hope thats aight, only about 867 words

uhhhh yeah I hope u enjoyed 

thank you for helping me make it this far, whether you've been here since the beginning or just came along I appreciate you all the same :3

uhhh idk bye ily

-JJZ