I suppose you're wondering why I had to tell her.
I didn't…really have to, I suppose. This is mystory, after all. She and Sayori were already growing close, and I had a nice b-plot going with Yuri and Natsuki. I could've resolved both of those pairings and ended it all with a happily ever whenever I chose to.
But I didn't. I went out of my way to hurt her – to hurt all of them.
Please understand that I do care about their well-being. But as I watched them go about their lives, grow close to one another, and have their daily ups and downs, I couldn't help but feel this overwhelming sense of guilt. Because they'd never know what was really going on. Somehow, it felt like I was lying to them.
If I'd continued to keep the truth from her, she would've continued smiling. But can such ignorance truly be called happiness? When I asked myself that question, I found that I couldn't answer it. And after writing so much about the importance of honesty, I guess I finally caved under the pressure.
But, truthfully, this feeling started a long, long time ago. In March of last year – two months before I'd start writing the story that you're reading right now, and a couple of weeks after I'd finished my first run of that game we all know and love.
I hadn't read fanfiction in over a year, but as I was still excited from my experience with Doki Doki Literature Club, I hopped onto AO3 that night and just scrolled. After a while, I thought about how each story was like its own, self-contained, alternate universe. And I thought about how each universe was just like the game that inspired it, something that bound the characters to immovable tracks that had a predetermined course. Even if the author changed their mind mid-sentence, after it was written, that was it. No variance. No freedom. Just like the game.
And I got to thinking how sad it all was.
This must sound ridiculous. Hell, it's illogical. It's late at night. I should be sleeping. And instead, here I am, rambling about artistic abstractions of people, abstractions that will never know what it means to be real, fake, or anything. Because they were, are, always will be, nothing.
I know this. I've been a writer for six years. I know this.
So why does it still hurt so much?
She's in pain. I can see that she's in pain.
Why aren't I stopping it?
I'm torturing her. It's Monika, for God's sake.
…
But that isn't quite right, is it?
It isn't really Monika. Just the best that I could do to approximate her.
And I'm not really torturing anyone but myself.