He stood up. His body felt heavier than usual, not from physical exhaustion, but from the chronic weight of despair.
He walked toward the mirror at the end of the room without passion, like an outdated program running on instinct.
There, his reflection awaited him. A figure with no distortion, no nose, no lips, no eyes.
Just a pale surface and brown hair that caught the faint morning light from the window. An eternal blank canvas. A sight that should be terrifying to anyone else, but for him, it had become routine. A painful reminder that he was just a background character in this world of romance.
He stood in front of the mirror, tilting his head left, then right.
"If only..." whispered the tired voice inside his heart.
If only there were eyes there—what color would they be? Would his eyebrows be thick or thin? What kind of lips would he have? Maybe a soft smile filled with meaning, or lips that stayed tight from constant weariness. A sharp nose or a small one? A strong jawline or a softer one?
He imagined faint laugh lines around eyes that didn't exist, wrinkles from thinking too hard, surprised expressions, angry ones, or even joy.
He tried to piece together a face in his mind, a complex image built from hopes that never came true. But the reflection stayed still, expressionless, and empty.
A bitter smile formed—though it was one he could only feel in the muscles that should have formed lips.
"...What now? Should I go to school and help the main characters get their happy ending again?"
He turned away from the mirror and walked to his desk. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a notebook—a small, worn-out leather notebook with a dark brown cover.
This notebook was the only constant in the chaos of the loop. Its pages were always filled with the same handwriting, neat but sometimes rushed.
Inside were observations, theories, experiments, and growing hopelessness. Not a single word ever changed. Not a single scribble erased. Not a single page turned blank.
The notebook was untouched by the loop. It remained exactly the same, proof of all his failures: dates of useless attempts, formulas that never worked, names of people he tried to save—and a long list of how they all ended up the same.
Every time he woke up, this notebook was always there in his desk drawer. An immortal notebook.
He opened it and flipped through the pages filled with all the ways he tried to help the main characters.
He turned to the very first page, the theory that once motivated him to keep going, to fight back.
"Achieve a happy ending for every character. Guide the protagonist. Help the heroines. Let them confess. Then, and only then, you'll be free."
He let out a quiet laugh when he saw that line.
He gripped the page tightly, then ripped it out, tearing it into pieces until nothing remained.
But he knew—tomorrow, that page would reappear in the notebook.
He looked at the clock. He had one hour left before the school gate would close.
With a heavy sigh, he got ready and left for school—the theater stage for the main characters.
His steps toward the school gate felt heavy. He didn't know what to do anymore. His goal, all this time, to reach a happy ending... had been wrong.
He looked around. Everyone else had no facial features like him. They walked aimlessly, like emotionless robots or NPCs in a lifeless world.
He turned his head away, not wanting to see the horrifying truth of this world.
In this world, only main characters or important side characters had faces. Background characters like him? Faceless. He should at least be thankful that he had his own consciousness.
Even if he wasn't allowed to interfere with the story, he wasn't bound by it either.
Soon, he arrived at the school gate—the stage where fate played out for the main characters. In the courtyard stood a large sakura tree, perfect for love confessions usually seen in the final episodes of a romance game.
He walked over to the bench beneath the sakura tree. Sitting there, he remembered the bittersweet memories with the heroines. Despite the chaos of the loop, some moments were genuinely beautiful.
He sat down and pulled out a book from his bag titled The Red String Theory, reading it while waiting for the main characters to arrive at school.
Not long after, two familiar figures appeared. The protagonist, Theo Smith—shiny black hair, a handsome face like a dating sim lead, and a fit body from regular workouts. The kind of protagonist that made him, the background character, grit his teeth in quiet envy.
Beside him was the heroine, Ivansia Ardenia, Theo's childhood friend. Her wavy black hair matched Theo's, and her silver-rimmed glasses sat perfectly on her nose. Her dark eyes sparkled like a night sky.
Their shoulders touched as they walked side by side to school. And yet, Theo never realized Ivansia's feelings for him—dense like a slab of stone.
He watched her. As they walked, Ivansia's ears turned red like cherries.
He closed his book, ready to follow them to class. But before he could stand up, the screech of tires came from behind.
A black chrome car stopped in front of the school gate. The back door opened, revealing a stunning girl.
His breath hitched. Even after seeing her hundreds of times, her beauty always stunned him.
The second heroine—Luna Destiara.
Her golden hair shimmered under the morning sun, each strand like silk threads of pure gold. Her blue eyes, as clear as the sea, sparkled with a sharpness that hinted at European heritage, yet carried a softness hidden deep within. The bright blue ribbon tied in her hair wasn't just an accessory—it was part of her identity.
She stepped out of the car gracefully. Every move she made was precise and full of confidence, as if the road before her was a red carpet made just for her.
It was as if imaginary spotlights followed her every step, highlighting her breathtaking beauty. Even the other faceless background characters around her suddenly froze, hypnotized by her aura.
But beneath all the beauty and admiration, her classic tsundere personality was still there. She didn't smile. She didn't wave. She didn't even show the slightest satisfaction about all the attention.
Instead, she scoffed quietly, turned her head a little away, and walked quickly like she was annoyed—though deep inside, she secretly enjoyed it all.
"Tch, so noisy," she muttered under her breath. Still, no one could deny that behind her cold act was a quiet pride.
He found himself smiling. Some things really never changed.
He turned away, about to head to class. But suddenly, a chill ran down his spine. He glanced back at Luna.
She was still walking, but he could've sworn she looked at him just now.
Was it just his imagination?
He shook the thought away and walked to class without giving it any more attention. He didn't want to hope for the impossible—for Luna to notice someone like him.
Because this world... always finds a way to make him suffer.