Unknown

 Sometimes you realize you’re the protagonist of a film you never chose to act in.

His life never felt like life in the ordinary sense—more like a long, spliced reel. A scene here, a fragment there, as if some unseen director had cut old films apart and stitched them into his mind.

At times he found himself locked inside a prison that never ended—not walls and bars, but the kind built deep within the self. Other times he sat among people who laughed, while he alone knew that half of them weren’t real at all… just shadows playing their roles.

And then, suddenly, he discovered that the greatest conspiracy wasn’t hidden in the world of politics or espionage, but in the human heart itself.

He often wondered: “Am I the only one who sees the world as a stage? Or is everyone else watching the same film—only through a different cut?”

Gradually he noticed something stranger still: the monsters he feared didn’t wear horns or bare fangs—they wore suits and warm smiles. And the heroes didn’t wear capes, but appeared in quiet moments, in a single word of truth, in a hand that reached out when everyone else pulled away.

When the fragments finally aligned like pieces of a puzzle, he understood: humanity could be both at once—the most dangerous of demons, and the most radiant of angels.

It was a terrifying thought… and strangely comforting too.

Because it meant the ending was never written by anyone else—only by him.

And in the silence, he almost heard the director’s voice whisper:

“Cut.”