The room was empty.

Julian scrolled down. He knew the plot by heart. He knew the exact kerning of the font on page 42. He knew the way the protagonist, a brooding jazz pianist named Elias, would fumble his cigarette lighter on page 108. He was addicted not just to the story, but to the feeling of the file. The way the pages turned with a satisfying click, the way the cursor blinked like a heartbeat.

He squinted at the text. It was a romance novel. He scrolled to the first page.

He had read the ending a thousand times. He knew what it said. But he needed to arrive there, to take the journey, to feel the temporary reprieve from his own reality.

The story was a sweeping romance about two soulmates who couldn't live without each other. It was cheesy, over-the-top, and utterly captivating. Emily read it in one sitting, and when she finished, she felt a pang of sadness.

It skipped down to the next blank line at the bottom of the page.

"Yeah," the landlord muttered, hypnotized by the glow. "I think I will be."

battles alcoholism, rarely seen without a bottle of bourbon as he tries to drown out his personal demons.

Her friends and family started to notice a change in her. She was distant, preoccupied, and irritable. They'd try to talk to her, but she'd just shrug them off, lost in her own little world of fictional romance.

Julian watched the words appear, mesmerizing.