I'm a Boy! NOT! ♡ BLUE LOCK x READER

♥︎prologue (requested)♥︎

hohoho hihihi if i finish this book then i will maybe make a alternative universe book where its if she failed! here is the prologue to it . this was requested and i really liked it beause sometimes i think about what-if she failedd too! 

(some people also wanted angst sometime ago so here you go)(˶ˆ꒳ˆ˵)

♡

For someone like me, dreams are just dreams—nothing more.

Whenever I think about my personal life, I can't help but loathe everything and nothing all at once. Where do I even begin to place the blame? Is it my fault? My parents' fault? Or maybe it goes back further—blame the parents who raised them, and the parents before them. Everyone has a reason for why they behave the way they do, and my parents were once abused children too. So were their parents. It's something they couldn't help, right? The abused become the abusers—it's a common phenomenon, and I can't help but pity them, understanding why they act the way they do.

Still, I hate that I was forced to endure that abuse. Pitying them makes me feel like it's my fault, so I try to channel my hate toward them again. But then I remember, and it turns into a cycle of confusion and frustration.

I can't shake the feeling that I've been set up for failure from the very beginning—that there was never any hope for me to achieve anything more, no matter how hard I dreamed. I was born into this—into unfortunate situations, failed by the system and by every adult in my life. That one child no one cared about until it was far too late.

That's who I grew up to be, and quite frankly, I felt helpless, hopeless. There was no escape from this situation. The system rarely supported people like me, and the foster care system was corrupt. Why is it that society only cares about people like me when it's too late? To create documentaries, memorials—to only think about us when we're gone.

Where do I even begin?

Should I start with the abuse that began as far back as I can remember? Or the rare times I saw my mother break down and cry, making me feel responsible? Or the times I was teased in kindergarten and primary school for flinching at everything and nothing? Maybe I should talk about how I was never able to form proper relationships, leaving me alone in high school. How about my grades? I used to dream of being a princess or a doctor and lifting my family out of poverty, just like every other kid. So why not me?

I sigh and glance up at Ego and Anri, who are busy answering calls from every corner. Phones ring endlessly, and notifications buzz furiously. I sit quietly on the chair, my head low, my wig in my lap, and my hair cascading over my face and body, free from any restraint. I hadn't had the chance to brush it yet, I think, bringing a lock of hair closer to my face. It's a little messy, but nothing anyone would notice unless they got uncomfortably close.

Not that I'll have to worry about that anymore.

I never thought something so simple, something I took for granted, would be something I'd miss so much already.

When I joined Blue Lock, that chain of helplessness tying me down evaporated into nothingness. Suddenly, I had a chance—an opportunity, hope to control my life and my fate, to do what I wanted. But now, that chain has returned, wrapping tightly around my neck, making it hard to breathe. The urge to cry suddenly overwhelms me. My eyes water, but I quickly wipe away any stray tears with the sleeves of my dark blue sweater. I don't want to cry, not yet. I don't want anyone to see me vulnerable.

A warm, large hand falls on top of my head, ruffling my hair. Looking up, I see Ego staring down at me with a monotone expression. But through the slight furrow of his brow, I know he's stressed. He holds a phone to his ear with his free hand, curtly answering whoever's on the other end. He doesn't speak, but I feel he's trying to comfort me. It only makes my urge to cry stronger. I want to hold his hand, to stay with him.