Good Night, My Little Prince

This is a simple, unadorned story, with none of the transmigration, skills, System, or overpowering-the-opposition stuff. Every word comes from the heart, and I truly hope you'll read it to the end. Thank you.

There are still plenty of lit windows outside. The city sky has been tinted by the lights until it glows red. I crouch beside the bed and look carefully at the child. His eyes are shut tight, his long eyelashes moving with each steady breath. His skin is so fair, and he has that milky scent unique to children.

I sit beside him for a long time, not knowing what to do. I want to stare at him and touch his little hand, but I also want to rush out and never come back. About half a year ago, I was a happy college student, a junior who still loved calling home to act spoiled with my parents. I always thought I was still young, still a child who needed someone to remind me to wear more clothes when it was cold and shower more often when it was hot.

But then fate played a cruel joke and suddenly gave me a child straight out of a nightmare. Worse still, he calls me Dad, and he's already old enough to run, jump, play soccer, and even write love letters to girls at school.

I don't want to believe it, and I'm sure most readers who see this won't believe it either. But the facts are the facts. From that day on, remembering my old life felt like remembering a past life.

I couldn't help sitting down at the computer, wanting to pour it all out. Being a father is so hard. My respect to all the fathers out there.

As soon as I sit down at the computer, I notice all the grimy marks along the edge of my white notebook and the mess of candy scattered across the desk.

I know I'm not a good writer. I'm recording what happened