It didn't take a genius to figure out I was dreaming.
You know that weird state where you're trapped in a dream but somehow know it's not real? Yeah. That was me. Right in the middle of one of those. And if you're wondering what exactly was going on that made me so sure this wasn't reality?
Well, for starters, I'd just encountered the absolute terror of a pig floating mid-air, wiggling its tiny tail like it was possessed and shaking its butt in what could only be described as a nightmarish dance. Still not over that. The background had been a dizzying white void, and all I could see was that cursed pig twirling and snorting.
Then the scene shifted—thank God—and now I was staring at a miniature version of myself. The blinding white was gone, replaced by a warm, cozy background. Soft music drifted through the air. The other me—little me—was curled up on the floor, leaning against a shelf, nose buried in a book.
I squinted at her. I had to be around seven, maybe eight. I didn't recognize the place—some bookstore, maybe—but something about it tugged at me. A vague, gnawing familiarity I couldn't quite place. Like a memory trying to claw its way back up.
Was this real? A long-forgotten memory? Or just some twisted illusion cooked up by my sleep-deprived, trauma-ridden brain?
What really made me nervous were the guards.
Yeah—guards. Standing around little me, stone-faced, alert. But here's the thing: I was right in front of them, waving, yelling... nothing. No reaction. Either these guys were blind, or—I swallowed hard—I was a ghost.
Now, don't get me wrong. Dreams are always full of insane nonsense. But what if—what if—I was actually dead?
Panic crawled up my spine.
I was too young. Still a virgin. Absolutely not making heaven—let's be honest. I wasn't the worst person on earth, but I'd probably ticked enough boxes to get a first-class, tambourine-blazing VIP pass to hell. Not that I was religious or anything, but right now? I needed a divine sign I was still alive.
"Hey!" I shouted, waving at the little me. No reaction. Still deeply into her book. I knew she wasn't ignoring me—hell, I'd know if I was being rude to me. But right now, I would've preferred to be ignored.
Dread set in as I stepped closer and reached out. Just a touch. That was all I needed.
My hand passed through her like smoke.
I froze.
Looking down at myself, I saw it—my body was nothing more than a blurry outline, hazy and insubstantial.
Great. Just great. I was screwed.
Shaking, I did the only thing I could do: I went batshit crazy.
"HEY! ASSHOLES! SOMEBODY?! HELLO?!" I waved like a maniac in front of the guards. One yawned.
He yawned.
Oh, he was definitely getting fired when I woke up. If I woke up.
Storming out from between the bookshelves, I found myself in a dim lobby. Finally, some hope. A receptionist sat at the far end, babbling on the phone, giggling like a preteen. I walked toward her, trying not to spiral, and stepped into a larger room.
And the place was… buzzing.
Dozens of cushions littered the corners. People lounged everywhere, buried in books. In the center, a man sat with a bunch of kids cross-legged around him, probably telling them a story.
So not a bookstore. A library.
Still didn't matter. Because no one saw me.
How do I know?
A pot-bellied idiot walked through me like I didn't exist.
The audacity.
I screamed again, louder this time. Nothing. No one flinched. I could've stripped naked and juggled flaming swords, and they'd still keep reading.
At that point, I gave up.
Fine. I was a ghost. Might as well embrace it. Maybe find some other lost souls and figure out the rules of this afterlife crap.
That's when I saw him.
A little boy, maybe eight or nine, chocolate-skinned, with messy brown curls tumbling over his glasses. He clutched a drawing book like it was sacred and snuck away from the group, heading toward the passage I'd just come from.
He caught my attention instantly.
Because beyond that passage was me. Little me.
And this boy—I knew him. I knew him. But how?
That part of my life was hazy—everything before I met the four of them always was. But looking at him filled me with something I didn't expect: guilt.
I shook it off. Now wasn't the time for self-inflicted guilt trips. I was curious. I wanted to know where he was going.
Some kids noticed him sneaking away but didn't stop him. In fact, they didn't seem to care. So, he made it through, slipping quietly into the passage.
I stared after him, a flicker of nostalgia bubbling in my chest. With a sigh, I followed, stepping back into the book-filled room. It was quiet again. Empty.
But I knew where he'd gone. Not from logic. Just instinct. And that surprised me.
I made my way to where I'd last seen the younger version of myself.
This time, she wasn't alone.
"Hell, Ada, you're hurting me! I'm sorry, okay? That's enough—please!" the boy yelled, struggling to pry my tiny fists out of his hair.
Little me wasn't having it. Brows furrowed, lips pouting, eyes blazing, she yanked even harder.
"You're late, idiot! How dare you make me wait! Stop squirming or I'll make you bald!"
That shut him up. He looked like a kid getting dragged into emotional war he didn't sign up for. But then he smiled.
"Hey, you wouldn't do that. If you do, I won't be cute anymore."
Mini-me narrowed her eyes, now dragging his hair. "Don't push your luck."
"Fine, fine, I'm sorry!" he wailed.
Satisfied, the little devil—yeah, I can admit it now—let go of his hair and turned to his drawing book, her eyes lighting up like fireworks. She stretched out her hand.
"Come on, I can't wait all day."
Grumbling, the boy handed her the book while rubbing his poor scalp.
Whatever was in that sketchbook had the little girl giggling, inching closer to him with sparkling eyes.
"We look so beautiful together," she whispered, voice bubbling with joy. "This is so pretty. I'm gonna show it to Mum—we could make a portrait of it at home. Just look at us, Nathan, you're a genius."
That name struck a chord.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
But the feeling flickered and vanished before I could grab hold of it. I was too exhausted to chase déjà vu today.
Curiosity tugged me forward. I leaned in to see this masterpiece that had her so enraptured.
And I gasped.
There, sketched in fine graphite lines on a plain white page, was a drawing of the two of us. But it wasn't just a drawing—it was a memory frozen in time. Us, leaning by the bookshelf like we always did, laughing. He'd captured the gleam in our eyes, the lopsided grins, the teasing, the mischief. It looked alive. Like it could breathe if I stared long enough.
I couldn't help but wonder—if this was a memory, what the hell happened to that drawing? Did I lose it? Throw it away? God, I hope not.
"You didn't think I was a genius when you were yanking my hair out," the boy muttered, rubbing his head.
But the little me wasn't listening. She was completely caught up in the artwork, her eyes practically glowing. Then she turned to him with a mischievous smirk. "Hey, close your eyes."
A strange feeling twisted in my gut.
The boy raised a brow. "Why? So you can punch me again? I swear, you don't act like a lady at all—"
She didn't let him finish. Placing a hand over his eyes, she quickly glanced around. And the second the guards weren't looking, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
My heart stopped.
Before I could fully process what just happened, the dream flickered like a film reel skipping frames. The same room, same shelves, but everything was heavier now—darker.
They were both standing.
"You… you're leaving?" the little me asked, voice shaking.
He looked down, guilt in his eyes. "I'm sorry."
"No." She stepped back, fists clenched. "You're not going anywhere. You're mine. No one gets to take you from me!"
It broke something inside me, watching myself like that—raw, crying, vulnerable. But more than that, it made me wary of the boy who could hurt me this deeply. Who the hell was he? Why did it feel like a part of me had been carved out just to forget him?
"I got a scholarship, Ada," he said gently. "The government's sending me to Winston Academy to study robotics. It's… it's my dream. You know that. Don't make this harder."
Robotics? At that age? What kind of fever dream was I trapped in?
"No, no…" the little me stammered, tears dripping down her cheeks. "I'll be better, I promise. I'll stop bullying you, I swear. If you stay, I'll be good. No more punches, no more hair-pulling. Please don't go. Please, Nat…"
She was sobbing now. Loud, broken sobs that made even the guards glance nervously, unsure what to do.
The boy adjusted his glasses, a bitter smile on his face. "I refuse to stay. I'm leaving because I want to. Because you're… exhausting. Being around you makes me miserable. I don't want to be sad anymore. So please, just let me go."
I felt like I couldn't breathe.
The little me stared at him, tears blurring her vision. "I don't believe you."
"Believe whatever you want," he said, voice colder now. "I just… don't want anything to do with you anymore."
She leaned on the bookshelf, like her knees were giving up. Her tiny fists trembled at her sides, and when she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.
"Then go. Do what you want. I… I didn't know I made you feel that way. I'm sorry."
His face twisted for a split second—regret, maybe—but he turned away and walked off without another word.
The moment he disappeared, the little girl sank to the floor, curling into herself. And she cried. Long, hard, and gut-wrenching.
I watched it all in silence, a sick feeling pooling in my chest.
Then it hit me—like a dam cracking open, the flood came rushing in. Memories I didn't even know I had crashed back into me, one after another, vivid and real.
It wasn't foggy anymore.
It wasn't fiction.
It was real.
And as the weight of it all settled into my chest, I sucked in a breath—deep and sharp—and woke up.