I woke up inside my friend's video game

The moon hung lazily in the sky, its pale glow casting long, restless shadows over the landscape. The air carried a weight of anticipation, as if the world itself was holding its breath, teetering on the edge of something unseen. I sat on a lone rock, staring at the horizon, lost in the quiet pull of my own thoughts. The silence was oddly soothing, yet a faint unease gnawed at the edges of my mind, an inexplicable whisper of something just beyond reach.

Then, as if the air itself had decided to fold and rearrange, a figure materialized beside me. He was draped in a garish patchwork of colors, each clashing violently with the next, a symphony of chaos made flesh. His eyes gleamed with an unmistakable, unhinged mirth—an erratic spark of madness that could belong to only one being.

"Sheogorath," I muttered, recognition settling like a stone in my chest.

He grinned, a smile that was somehow both inviting and unnerving. "Ah, it's not every day I find someone just... sitting. So dull, so uninspired. Tell me, what dreary little thoughts haunt that overworked mind of yours today?"

I hesitated. Engaging with Sheogorath was never wise, yet ignoring him felt even riskier. "Just… thinking. About the story."

He chuckled, the sound rippling through the air like shattered glass. "Ah, yes. The story. A fine tale you're weaving, or so you tell yourself. But what does it matter if no one else hears it?"

His words hit sharper than they should have. I turned to him, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know exactly what I mean." He tapped his temple, eyes alight with mischief. "You write. You toil. You spill your heart into every word, yet—what do you receive? No applause. No accolades. Just silence."

I looked away, the weight of his words pressing down on me. It was true. The story sometimes felt like it was dissolving into the void, unseen, unheard. But still, I wrote. I had to. Stopping wasn't an option.

"And yet," Sheogorath continued, voice dripping with mock sympathy, "you persist. Why, I wonder? What keeps that feeble little flame burning when all the world turns away?"

I exhaled slowly. "It's not about them. It's about the story itself. I believe in it. I know it's worth telling, even if no one else sees it yet."

His grin widened, something almost knowing lurking beneath it. "Ah, belief! The most dangerous and intoxicating of all mortal motivations. It has led to both brilliance and ruin—sometimes simultaneously. But belief without validation… that's a lonely road, isn't it?"

I nodded, feeling the truth of it settle deep within me. "It is. But I'd rather walk that road than abandon something I believe in."

He regarded me for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, with an exaggerated flourish, he rose to his feet. "You are a peculiar one, aren't you? So stubborn, so unrelenting. But tell me, dear author, if no one listens to your tale, did you ever truly tell it? Or was it just a whisper lost to the wind?"

I met his gaze, feeling a quiet certainty settle over me. "It matters to me. And that's enough."

For the first time, his expression flickered with something almost akin to respect. Then, as suddenly as he had arrived, he burst into wild laughter—a sound unhinged, gleeful, echoing into the night. "Well then! Cling to your madness, dear author. Let it drive you forward. After all, the best stories are born from madness, are they not?"

And just like that, he was gone.

The night stretched around me, silent once more. Yet, something inside me had shifted—a small, flickering flame that would not be doused by doubt or silence. The story would continue. It had to.

Because I believed in it.

For now.