POV: Mara
Years had passed since the novel world faded into memory. But for Mara, the memories never disappeared — they lived in every shadow, every reflection, every page.
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She walked through a quiet bookstore, now wearing a simple scarf, far from the capes and storms of her past. But then… she stopped.
There—on the front display—was a familiar name:
"The Side Princess" by Gerah S.
A published novel. Bestseller. Adapted for stage. Rumored to be headed for a film.
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She picked up a copy, her fingers trembling.
“Was it all… real?” she whispered.
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Around her, readers smiled as they turned the pages.
One girl looked exactly like the obsessed lady who once loved Prince Xavier—but this time, she was peacefully reading, not chasing a fairytale.
Mara stepped out into the city.
She started noticing more of them—faces she thought she’d only met in a world that wasn’t supposed to exist.
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Maybe they weren’t just characters.
Maybe they were us all along.
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Meanwhile...
Gerah was now a celebrated author.
She had woken up one day in her real world, surrounded by notebooks and drafts.
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At first, she thought it was all a dream.
But the books on the shelves said otherwise.
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Her story wasn’t about Prince Xavier.
It wasn’t about Princess Dahlia.
It was about her—The Side Princess who changed the ending.
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---
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At a local café, a phone call came through.
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> “Hi, Miss Gerah? We’re from Sunstream Productions. We’d love to adapt your novel series into a drama… would you be interested?”
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Gerah smiled, watching children dressed like characters from her book.
“I’d be honored.”
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As she reached for her novel from the café shelf, another hand reached for it too.
She looked up.
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A man.
He looked exactly like Prince Xavier.
Beside him, a woman with Mara’s face smiled and said,
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> “ You again?
You wanted to get this too?”
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Gerah stood frozen. She turned behind them—
A crowd, all holding copies of The Side Princess.
Laughing. Talking. Living.
Familiar faces in unfamiliar clothes.
Maybe not from a story anymore—
But from reality.
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A Quiet Poem Played in Her Head:
We were once the lines unheard,
Trapped in pages never turned.
But ink remembers, time replays,
What silence
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writes in hidden ways.
To every side who felt too small,
Your story matters, after all.
THE END...
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