I fucked up.

Even after making this grandiose speech of only writing for myself and my own enjoyment, I still could not help but feel the pressure of the Sunday deadline on me as I had to willingly separate the time of the day to write.

And so I did. I gritted through it and I was happy when it was over. Just another chore done.

It was only when I didn't have internet for a few days that I truly took the time to reflect upon this way of thinking and why it was faulty. Gritted through it. Chore.

It made me realise that the story building process and writing became something I had to moan and groan my way through. This is unsettling to me, so much so that I didn't want to think about it until recently.

Writing? Being a chore? Surely I'm just in a mood or something. Writing the first story was a simple kind of joy, though no less difficult than now. I could sit down before school, know I have an hour before I could write something halfway decent, and I yolo'd through it with a stupid grin on my face as I wrote some wacky scenario or a solemn character moment.

Nowadays, when I write, I'm thinking of other things. I think of a game, perhaps. Maybe that other cool idea I had? I should really pick up reading books more.

Then the writing was done, and I would rush off to do something else.

I do not pretend to understand everything I do, or everything I feel. But this marked a trend that I, perhaps, noticed before and could not - would not accept:

I don't enjoy this.

Maybe I feel an obligation towards the people who enjoyed the first story? Maybe I want to be that writer who continues their work and gives people something to look forward to? Who knows?

Regardless, I enjoyed writing the first story. But perhaps I reopened the Zeroverse at a bad time for myself.

And I am sorry for that. For stringing you along, for even putting a monetisation outlet as recommendation from people who don't even know what I write about or the scope of my work (small niche audience). I will retroactively remove all excerpts of such outlets from the previous chapters.

Ultimately, I have deceived myself. And in doing so, I deceived all of you, and I sincerely apologise for that.

Will I stop writing? For now, yes. I want to focus on other things.

Will I continue writing? Hopefully, though likely in a different story. This one is grounded in bad blood, sort of to speak.

For those still reading, I want to sincerely thank you for being a part of this journey. Also a final thank you on the reviewers, who felt so compelled to give me words of encouragement and criticism and general comments and whatnot. I still see some commenting who have been on this journey practically alongside me writing this story (I see you, Mustafao0 3), and I love going back to the reviews when I need a self confidence boost in hard times.

Without further ado... it is time.

I realise the story ended a bit more abruptly than either of us was expecting, but such is life, eh? Sometimes, we have to make the hard decisions that hurt now, in order to feel better later. And this one... phew, is it hard for me.

Now, time for me to do like Walker and figure some shit out.