There is a Wattpad author I really admire. I read all her stories. I fell in love with every character in her stories. Her stories gave me a glimpse of the things I would want to experience but never will. I feel like I was with the characters in every steps, there was always satisfaction in me whenever they get happy endings.
When I am uncertain with my life, I seek refuge in her stories. Reading has been a way for me to escape my harsh reality, there is love, hope, and happy endings.
But nothing lasts forever. The author was searching for her identity, she was exploring new genres, she was developing together with her craft. Suddenly, I couldn't keep up anymore. She stopped the happy endings, I became depressed with her stories. It was too much to take. I do not blame her, after all she didn't become a writer to cater my wants. She was doing it for herself and I understand it.
I stopped reading her latest works not because I dislike her or the stories, but because I was slowly losing my purpose in reading. Reading is supposed to be my source of happiness and positivity in this harsh world, not something that would intensify my depression.
I still support her. I never disliked her as a person- that would be so immature.