Dividing Happiness to Feel the Misery
"People only truly sense misfortune after they've parceled out their happiness."
The sharp sting of disinfectant pierced my nostrils. Cool air seeped into the thin, stark white patient gown. He sat in the chair by my bed, his lips moving endlessly with dull, pretentious ramblings. I pouted, stretching my hand toward his firm forearm and tapping it lightly.
"Bo. ring."
Tap! Tap! Clack clack clack! An odd sound echoed. His once-sturdy arm had withered, lacking any real strength now. It was more like a feeble flail of petulance, but he stopped talking and lowered his head to gaze down at me. I loved that worried, tender look in his eyes. The guy who usually teased me so shamelessly with that poker face.
If only I'd listened to him more carefully back then. But regrets now were pointless.
Suddenly, I hated myself fiercely—the selfish me who'd cherished only the present, living for the moment without a care.
When the terminal diagnosis came, I felt nothing. He mattered more than some distant death. But he crumbled. The pastor's son who'd never prayed in his life, the one whose title rang hollow, clasped his hands in the corner of the room, cursing God and grieving as if he were dying himself.
—But I wasn't sad. I'd never once felt unhappy. If anything, I was a little glad. He fussed over me all day, doting on his dying girlfriend.
I threw tantrums even when the nurses scolded me. I demanded kisses and hand-holding at every turn. On days I got poked for blood tests, I'd roll around on the bed making a racket.
"I'll die without blood! Hurry! Your neck... gimme your neck!"
Silly nonsense. He always played along with a grin, like he couldn't help it, and offered his neck willingly. I'd pull him close, feeling his warmth pulse, and suck hard enough to leave a red mark with a loud smack.
Sometimes I'd clutch my chest, pretending to gasp for air. "Ugh... my heart's pounding too hard, what do I do...?" I'd giggle at his pale, frozen face, teasing him mercilessly.
Whenever my boyfriend visited, I'd whine that I wanted to live longer, to see the sea. I hoped he'd remember me forever, even after I was gone—etched deep in his heart. That shallow greed of mine... I never dreamed it would lead to disaster.
One day, the doctor burst in with good news: a heart donor had appeared. I buzzed with excitement. Surgery meant a future with him. I waited anxiously for him to open the door.
The door swung open. But his face, meeting mine, wore not joy but a cold sneer.
"I only dated you out of pity 'cause you were gonna die soon, and now...?"
His voice held no warmth—like a dry, icy blade.
"I even got a new girlfriend a few days ago, planning to dump you when you kicked the bucket... fuck, this sucks."
He looked down at me like trash. For the first time, alien disgust hit me. Years piled up since middle school came crashing down.
He shoved his phone in my face, showing a photo of his "new girlfriend." She looked so much... so much prettier, cuter than me, neglected from hospital life. My vision warped. Breath caught in my throat. I tumbled from the bed, howling like a beast down the hallway, clinging to his shoe. I bawled like a newborn.
"Waaahhh!!! I don' wanna diiiie... pleeease...!"
Tears and snot smeared everywhere as I gripped his ankle.
"Hic... snff... just date me till then... hiiic... waaahhh!"
"Let go. We've known each other years... forgot we're childhood friends? Think sweet-talking your way out now will fix this?"
He shook me off mercilessly. My bony hand slid across the floor. The door slammed shut.
BLOCKED
It was a miracle. The surgery odds were hopeless, but it succeeded. In a pitch-black room, no light seeping in, only the phone screen's blue glow lit my face.
BLOCKED
Back. Tap again.
BLOCKED
Back. Tap again. Hundreds of times, clinging to faint hope it'd unblock. Later, I made burner accounts to stalk him. Weekly photos with his new girl: cafes, and the sea I'd begged to see.
Obsession ballooned uncontrollably. I just wanted one glimpse from afar. Swapped phones endlessly to call. Posed as a coworker via text, begging to meet. No reply.
Finally, I shoveled money at a PI. "Find these two in the photos." They found her, but not him.
I pulled on his memory-soaked bunny-ear hoodie and stepped out, pathetic. Met the girl and immediately groveled. "Please, just let me see his face once!" She sighed pityingly at my wreck of a self, leading me to a cafe. Then truth slipped from her lips.
Fake dating contract. Cash she'd been paid. Pre-shot photos to post weekly for three months. His final request before death: make me suffer.
The donor heart beating steadily in my chest? It was his.
"He's gone from this world."
That single fact shattered my will entirely.
From then, delusions gripped me. With family permission, I visited his empty house. Sorting relics, I blankly booted his desk PC. Password prompt blinked. Fingers moved on instinct.
qkqh
Idiot. The word he'd laughingly call me since childhood whenever I acted up. Screen unlocked. Desktop crammed with hardcore porn games, vulgar tastes blatant.
Face burning, I cleared every last one. Netorare, humiliation, shame, corruption. Mouse clicks echoed in the empty room.
In the little desk mirror, my face glowed tomato-red, ears steaming to the limit. I slumped forward, hot tears splashing my thigh.
If only I'd known sooner...
He could've just told me. I'd have indulged every kink.
I holed up, diving into romance fantasies and otome games. Superimposed his face on every male lead. Filled impossible realities with fluffy, candy-sweet delusions. Hugging pillows all day, drifting in filtered romance.
"Ehehehe..."
Glassy-eyed, I giggled vacantly—even as the PC's blue glow swallowed the room whole. Just a junkie lost in sweet hallucinations, face buried in the pillow.
Fluffy bedding. Pale pink canopy overhead. The otome game world of the academy romance fantasy novel Please Stop Obsessing.
I'd possessed Rozalia von Bloomhart—dying sister of Kirian von Bloomhart, the count's second son and sub-male lead.
I lifted my skeletal wrist. Lungs quivered with each breath.
"Terminal here too, huh."
A flat, emotionless voice dropped into the void.
──That instant.
Thump—heart surged, will igniting.
He's in this world. My love sensor pinged instinctively. That certainty sparked hope for the looming "future," memories to build from the "past."
It gave me courage to keep living. I clenched my frail fist—weak grip, but resolve inside firmer than anything.
Heartbeat thrummed in my ears. Pink rose scent wafted through the open window. Minutes ago, everything felt alien and horrific.
Now... just peaceful. Warm.
You know... my happiness might be you...
Pfft—a silly laugh escaped my parched lips.
How do I even divide that up...?
The terminal setting no longer bound her. Armed with full original knowledge, she squeezed every drop from her last month before academy enrollment. Leveraging countess status, she swept hidden opportunities and treasures across the continent like mad, delving into the family secret Rose Swordsmanship.
Devouring tomes, cutting sleep, endless training—her scrawny limbs gained sleek, firm muscle. Pink rose-blade petals whirled in a storm from her rapier tip.
The terminal curse? Long shattered.
Now she gripped the Omnipotent's Quill Pen, glaring at the macaron mountain.
Breath ragged. Mana boiled from her core, surging through her body. Rozalia swept sweat-damp bangs aside, tossing her silver rapier aside. Calluses etched her palm—not the frail hand of a doomed lady, but a battle-hardened grip over wiry muscle, ready to carve flesh.
She sat at the tea table. Silver tray overflowed with sweet-scented macarons. The quill felt heavy in her right hand—artifact trading mana for miracles. She thrust the nib into the air, channeling heart-mana outward.
Effect on Consumption: Prone to gaining weight.
Plain truth. She slashed the air with the nib. Massive mana sucked into the tip like an ebbing tide. Vision spun, vertigo hit hard—but she gritted through, adding:
Effect on Consumption: Prone to gaining weight in breasts and hips.
The sentence locked. Quill ink flashed gold, dispersing. Rozalia snatched a raspberry macaron, crunching shell and chewy filling. Sweet overload. She wolfed five more, choking them down with tea. Plate cleared.
She rose, center of gravity pitching forward. Massive tits sloshed heavily. Sweat beaded in cleavage, sliding into unseen depths with each breath. Inner thighs stuck slickly.
Full-length mirror. Rozalia panted, staring at her transformed body. No trace of the skeletal invalid. Lithe core from Rose Swordsmanship. And the quill's handiwork: tits bigger than her head, ass like a bursting barrel.
A lewd, pervert-bait body perfectly sniping her ex's vulgar tastes...
Rozalia cupped her jiggling mammathons. Hands overflowed with soft, doughy flesh squeezing between fingers. Thick eyeliner lined her moist, pale pink lips.
A small gift box sat on the table—crafted from fused hidden pieces, packed with ex-boyfriend bait.
Will he like it...?