Inferiority complex is something every human should keep at arm's length. It is a disease of the mind that eats away at your spirit and dignity, leading you toward choices you never imagined you could make. It warps your thoughts, darkens your imagination, and poisons not just your own life but the lives of those around you. In the worst cases, it becomes a quiet saboteur, guiding your hand into ruining the things you love the most.
I know, because mine did exactly that.
My own inferiority complex and relentless self-doubt destroyed the most beautiful thing I had ever been given—my relationship with Rihanat. Not only did I shatter the bond we had built together, but I dragged her into a life she never deserved, one filled with emotional storms and shadows that I had summoned myself. I made her days unbearable, her nights restless. My mother's suffering was another tragedy I had birthed, a separate pain running parallel to hers.
Life might have given me countless chances to make amends, but I squandered them all until I paid the ultimate price—taking my own life.
That should have been the end. But life, or rather Death, had other plans for me.
My brother had finally left for the United States again, and the café was now in my care. I had once vowed to leave as soon as he was gone, to put this town and all its memories far behind me. But that pledge died the moment I saw her again.
Rihanat.
The name alone could make my chest tighten. The woman I thought I would never see again in any life, the one I had lost by my own hands, now stood alive in front of me in this reincarnation. Her presence here tethered me to this place. I had no choice now—I would keep the café open, not for business, not for profit, but for her. Even if my brother never returned from the States, even if the days stretched into years, I would stay.
The challenge now was not finding her—it was telling her the truth. How do you look a woman in the eyes and say, It's me, but in another man's body? I knew exactly how she would react. At best, she'd think I had lost my mind; at worst, she'd walk away and never return.
Yet the urge to reach out to her was unbearable. Aside from my mother, she had been the only person who stood beside me through every fall, every fight, every mistake. And I could tell she hadn't truly moved on since my death. I saw it in her posture, in her gaze that seemed to drift elsewhere, as if still searching for someone. I longed for her hugs, her voice, her quiet encouragement. She had been my safe place, my anchor. Now she was within arm's reach, but separated by an impossible truth.
For now, I could do nothing but wait—for the right moment, for the perfect opening, for the day she would look at me and see me.
The next day, I prepared for her arrival as if I were staging a sacred ritual. I made sure her usual seat by the window remained untouched, even going so far as to place a small "Reserved" sign there. No one else would occupy it today.
And then she walked in.
She was as luminous as ever—her beauty understated yet captivating, the kind that didn't need makeup or effort to be noticed. Her presence filled the café the way sunlight warms a cold room. She came straight to the counter, where I was the only one on duty.
Before she could even speak, I said the order I knew by heart.
Her eyebrows rose in surprise, and a faint smile curved her lips. Without a word, she walked to her table by the window. I served her coffee, and alongside it, a slice of cheesecake.
"I didn't order any cake," she said softly, her voice the same gentle music I remembered.
"I know," I replied with a small smile. "It's on the house. And…I'm a big fan of your books."
Her expression shifted—still surprised, but now tinged with curiosity. "How did you know I was an author?"
Most people didn't. She kept her identity hidden from the public, her face never tied to her work.
I reached beneath the counter and pulled out a worn copy of her first novel, To You in the Future. "I looked up who wrote it," I said. "That's how I found out."
She smiled faintly, a guarded sort of gratitude, and thanked me before turning back to her laptop. I lingered nearby, wrestling with the desire to speak and the fear of overstepping.
Finally, I broke the silence. "Actually…I have an idea for a novel."
She looked up at me again, intrigued. "What's it about?"
I hesitated, then asked, "Mind if I sit?"
She nodded.
I began carefully, telling her the truth disguised as fiction. "It's about a man who dies—not once, but over and over. Every time he dies, he meets Death in the afterlife. As punishment, Death reincarnates him into another person's body. Each new life is harder than the last, each ending more painful. No matter how hard he tries to survive, nothing ever goes as planned. And the cruelest part is…he can't stop it. Death always wins."
I skipped over the parts about her and me. Those were still too raw, too dangerous to reveal. But I told her everything else—how Death looked, how her voice carried a cold finality, how she made each reincarnation feel like both a curse and a test.
She listened intently, her gaze fixed on me. Then she interrupted. "Hold on—what did you say your name was?"
"Niwildan," I answered.
"You tell this story so realistically. You describe the protagonist's emotions like they're your own."
I almost laughed. Of course they are my own, I thought.
She leaned forward slightly. "And Death—the character you described. Is he really that cruel?"
I didn't hesitate. "She," I corrected. "And yes. She's the cruelest being I've ever known. I wouldn't wish an encounter with her on my worst enemy."
"Death as a 'she'," she mused. "Interesting."
"She's awful," I continued, heat rising in my voice. "And the worst part? She acts like it's just the way things are. Like we're supposed to accept it."
Rihanat laughed softly. "It's funny—you created this character, but you talk about her like she's real. Like you've met her."
If only she knew.
She said she liked the story, and asked if I had more. I told her I did, and she asked me to share it with her another time. She even asked what the protagonist's name was. I told her I hadn't decided yet.
Then, seizing my chance, I asked for her autograph on To You in the Future. She agreed, pulling out a fountain pen from her bag.
It wasn't just any pen.
It was the pen. The one I had bought for her back when we were together, with her name engraved on its barrel. I never had the chance to give it to her before I died, but my mother—God bless her—had found it among my things and given it to Rihanat on the day of my funeral.
I kept my expression neutral as she signed my book, but inside, my chest ached.
"It's a beautiful pen," I said.
"It was a gift," she replied, her voice softening. "From someone who always believed in my dreams."
If only she knew that person was sitting right in front of her.
I wanted nothing more than to stand, cross the table, and pull her into my arms. But that would have been selfish. Now was not the time. For now, I only needed one thing: to keep her coming back. To give her reasons to return to this café, to sit across from me again and again, until the day I could tell her everything—about my death, my punishment, and the cruel game Death was playing with my soul.
Until then, I would keep the coffee warm, the cheesecake fresh, and the story alive.