We’re walking down another creepy hallway, and Bob is acting weird. Like, weirder than usual weird. His cape isn’t swishing all over the place. His sword isn’t accidentally bonking into walls. And most alarming? He’s quiet.

Bob doesn’t do quiet.

I stop, leaning on my spear. “Alright, what’s your deal?”

He glances at me, his face pale under the faint glow of the torches lining the hall. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Fine? Bob doesn’t do fine either. Bob does “heroic” or “excessively emotional” or “falls into mud.” Not fine.

“You look like you’re about to puke,” I say, poking him. “You’re not gonna die on me, are you? Because if you do, I am not filling out that paperwork.”

He shakes his head, swallowing hard. “No dying. Just… give me a second.”

“Oh, sure,” I say. “Take all the time you need. It’s not like we’re standing in what’s clearly the entrance to certain doom.”

Bob doesn’t laugh. Or even argue. He just stares at the door ahead of us. It’s a massive thing, carved with scary symbols and glowing faintly like it’s judging our life choices. Typical evil lair vibes. Normally, Bob would be charging toward it with a battle cry and at least three terrible plans.

Instead, he’s frozen.

“Okay, seriously,” I say, stepping in front of him. “What’s going on?”

He exhales shakily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think… I think this is the Fear Room.”

“The what now?”

He gestures at the door like that explains anything. “You know. The part of the hero’s journey where you face your greatest fear.”

“Oh, that,” I say, pretending to be impressed. “And you’re scared of… what? Spiders? Clowns? Losing your cape?”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Bob doesn’t laugh. Or smile. Or do anything remotely Bob-like. He just looks at me with this sad, hollow expression that makes me feel like the world’s biggest jerk. Which, to be fair, I kind of am, but still.

“What if I’m not enough?” he blurts out.

I blink. “Enough for what? Lunch? Because you’re definitely not. You ate all the snacks three rooms ago.”

He shakes his head. “No, Greg. Enough to be the Chosen One.”

Oh.

I lean back against the wall, fiddling with the strap on my spear. “What brought this on?”

He gestures vaguely at the door again. “I don’t know! Maybe the glowing evil door ahead of us. Or the fact that I’ve nearly died ten times since we started this quest. Or that the only reason we’re still alive is because you keep saving me.”

“Well, yeah,” I say. “That’s just… normal. You do something dumb, I fix it. It’s called teamwork.”

“But I’m supposed to be the hero!” he says, his voice cracking. “The prophecy says I’m destined to save the world. What if it’s wrong? What if I’m just… Bob?”

The way he says his name, like it’s some kind of curse, hits me harder than I’d like to admit. I sigh and rub the edge of my nose. “Alright, listen. I’m only saying this once, so pay attention.”

Bob looks at me, wide-eyed, like I’m about to deliver the meaning of life. No pressure.

“Nobody really knows what they’re doing,” I begin. “Not you, not me, not the king in his stupid pineapple hat. You just fake it. You fake it so hard that everyone around you believes you know what you’re doing. And before you know it, you’ve faked your way through a whole prophecy.”

Bob’s brow furrows. “So… you’re saying I should fake being the Chosen One?”

“Exactly,” I say, pointing my spear at him for emphasis. “You think I know what I’m doing when I pull levers or stab monsters? Nope. I’m winging it. Constantly. And so far, no one’s called me out.”

“But… what if I mess up?”

“Bob, you mess up all the time,” I say. “You tripped over your own cape yesterday. And you know what? We’re still here. You’re still alive. And honestly, you’re doing better than I expected.”

He blinks at me. “You expected me to die?”

“Oh definitely,” I say. “But here you are. Still kicking. And that’s half the battle.”

He’s quiet for a moment, staring at the ground. Then he looks up at me, and there’s this flicker of hope in his eyes. “You really think I can do this?”

“No,” I say immediately. His face falls, and I sigh. “But I do think you’ll keep trying. And that’s what matters. Because eventually, you’ll get it right. Probably. Maybe. Who knows? But you won’t find out by standing here and freaking out.”

Bob’s quiet again. Then, slowly, a grin spreads across his face. It’s lopsided and a little shaky, but it’s there. “You’re terrible at pep talks.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, shoving him toward the door. “You’re terrible at being the Chosen One. Guess we’re even.”

He laughs, and for the first time since we got here, he actually looks like himself again. It’s annoying how much better that makes me feel.

We stand in front of the door, side by side.

Bob takes a deep breath. “Alright. Let’s do this.”