December Rain فتاة الغاب

صاحب الرواية الحقيقي || The real author of the novel

Harry POV

I used to meet her when we left the dormitory in the morning, and as always, I tried to avoid her, doing nothing but smile. I must have seemed cold to her as well. But that Monday morning, when I left my room, I didn't see her, not even at the university later. I went to the library where I usually found her, but she wasn't there that day.

Why did I feel she was different from everyone else? Yet, I continued to ignore her like everyone around me. Eventually, I even forgot about her and the fact that she had suddenly disappeared. After finishing all my lectures, I returned to my dark room. I opened the door very slowly to avoid making noise and waking my neighbors because the room doors were close to each other and, being old, made an annoying creaking sound. Unlike usual, the room was lit by a soft, gentle light from a lamp I had never used before. I entered the room and tossed my bag aside, saying nothing, just looking at her standing by the piano. She was the first to speak.

"It was you again. Why did you intrude into my life like this? You don't know what I've suffered because of you and your silly novels," she said with a trembling voice, almost on the verge of tears. I didn't know what she meant or how she got into the room that I had securely locked, but it seemed she had uncovered my secret.

"What do you mean?"

"You're the author of 'The Forest Girl,' aren't you?"

"How did you know that? Or rather, how did you dare enter here? I don't accept this, you've crossed the line."

"I was rejected by all the publishing houses because of you. No one agreed to publish my novels and I was accused of plagiarism because our stories are similar. I'm struggling with a lack of money while you gain fame and admiration from everyone."

"Ah, here we go again with those bad traits. You should cry once more because you're jealous of everyone, even me."

"This isn't jealousy. I'm trying to defend my right that you took from me. You've somehow stolen my novels. Why do you get what rightfully belongs to me?"

"I didn't steal anything, and everyone knows that. Now leave the room. I don't want to talk to anyone, not even you."

"I've worked on them for years, since I was eight. Do you know that feeling? What would you do if you were in my place?"

"And what would you do if that were true? Let's assume this nonsense is real; you can't do anything."

"You're right. I can't do anything now. I want you to tell me when you started writing it."

"I won't answer."

"I'm giving you a chance to prove you didn't steal it."

"Maybe you're the one who stole it from me."

"You know I didn't. I don't even know your name."

"Harry. My name is Harry, author of that novel which was born from my imagination and has nothing to do with you."

"Then tell them my novel isn't yours and that we don't know each other. Don't stand in the way of my dream."

"Was your dream fame and money? That's pathetic."

"You'll never understand. Yes, those bad traits... you're still a selfish person. I wish I'd never met you. I wish you would just disappear from my life."

She left the room in tears, but I couldn't see them because the light suddenly went out. However, I could feel it. I didn't know what she was talking about, accusing me of stealing her work. I didn't even know which novel she was referring to. I approached the lamp and turned it on again to find a copy of my novel on the floor. She knew about it, even though I had always tried to hide the fact that I was the author of that silly story I always hated. But I needed to understand what was happening, so I decided to contact one of the publishing houses.