《Bridging Souls》 Chapter 1: Hello 9.00 a.m. This was an ungodly hour to organize a meeting, I thought. Scratch that - when you work in corporate, any hour is an ungodly hour to have a meeting. The lower half of my body was falling asleep, my coffee was now cold from having to rush to this meeting, and I had a mild panic attack when I couldn¡¯t recall if I had locked the front door on my way out this morning. I reminisced about the exact moment I was instructed to choose a career path. It was right before starting Sixth Form, and we were each given a form to select our streams: Arts of Science. It was a cruel system, expecting a clueless kid to determinethe path of the rest of their lives by simply ticking acheckbox.Raised by mother to be fiscally frugal, I naturally leaned towards a career that would earn me the most money. This is it, I thought naively as I ticked all the subjects for Engineering, this will set me up for life. Little did I know that what I actually signed up for was unrewarded overtime, endless red tape, and daily redundant meetings (that could have been emails). My mind drifted back to the minutes I was supposed to be working on. Wow, I zoned out for quite a while. The other people in the room were still droning on, but I supposed they were about to conclude soon, given the time. I perked up at the thought of retreating to my corner desk. Any moment now. I looked down on my watch. 9.03 a.m. I could almost feel the deep soul-crushing pain caused by such irony. That, or it could have been my gastritis acting up from the cold, bitter coffee. With a subtle sigh, I picked up my pen and tried to concentrate on my notes. It took immense effort, considering I was still mourning the poignant relativity of time and the sad state of my beverage. Both left a bitter aftertaste, literally and figuratively. And that¡¯s when it happened. From the corner of my eye, I saw my spare pen roll over slightly towards me. I paid no heed to it, probably moved because of the air-conditioner. The central AC was known to be a bitwonky from time to time. The second time it happened caught my full attention; this time it rolled a solid few inches away from me. This was it. I was becoming undone. All those all-nighters and lack of social interaction has caught up to me. My imagination has intertwined with reality, and I couldn¡¯t tell them apart. I supposed all I had left to do now was accept my fate. This could go two ways: my tragic memoir could be turned into an award-winning coming-of-age biopic, or¡­ I could be institutionalized forever. If it was the former, would I have creative control over the narrative? Would I be able to choose my life-movie¡¯s director? ¡°Milla, what are the numbers?¡± I was in reality now, I was sure. No way in my imagination would I have an old man in a monkey suit harass me for numbers I couldn¡¯t care less for.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. I read the numbers off my files, which seemed to appease the monkey-man. I looked back at the pen. It remained at its last position. Would I be able to choose which actress plays me? *** It was five minutes to 5 o¡¯clock, but I was already ready to bolt. Bags packed, spirits high, no cares given. It wasn¡¯t like I had any terribly exciting plans to head to - no dinner gatherings, no parties, no dates. It¡¯s not that I was anti social, heck, I had my fair share of wild nights back in the day. Too wild, in fact, which left me with painful memories and disgraceful regrets that I carried till this day. So instead of working on my traumatic past and putting myself out there, I did what any other self-preserving young adult would do: ignore my problems and binge-watch a show. That day I was eager to find out whether the contestants cooped up in a single household could abstain from having sex with each other. I wonder what our ancestors would have imagined the future to be: flying cars, teleportation devices, humans possessing the willpower to maintain celibacy¡­ But no, the year was 2020, and one of the greatest productions of our generation was a scripted superficial drama of whether a bunch of adolescents could keep it in their pants. Ah, how far we¡¯ve come. And I was shamelessly deriving pleasure from it. ¡°Milla! Hold up.¡± I begrudgingly held the door open button in the elevator. ¡°Hey, Lee,¡± I said with a smile. ¡°Glad I caught you,¡± he kept the doors open with his hands. ¡°Join us tonight, we¡¯re going to the beach to celebrate Jane¡¯s birthday.¡± No, Lee, I had to know if Selena and Tom can resist their palpable sexual chemistry. ¡°Sure, Lee,¡± I said instead. ¡°When and where?¡± ¡°Great! Never mind that, just carpool with us.¡± he said as he let go of the doors. ¡°Meet us down at the lobby.¡± ¡°Great,¡± I echoed. ¡°See you.¡± As the doors close I cursed my spineless self. *** The warmth from the bonfire made me feel better. I took another bite of pizza and managed to take a genuine interestin some small talk. Everyone was singing out loud to a curated list of current hits on Lee¡¯s phone, and before they could pinpoint me next to deliver some current hit for their entertainment, I picked up a can of soda and ducked away from the crowd. I headed over to the edge of the sea and sat down facing the sea. It was a soothing night; the sounds of the waves and gentle breeze calmed me despite the commotion going on at the back. I felt someone come up behind me, and without turning to see who it was I said, ¡°Nice night, isn¡¯t it.¡± It was silent for a while, aside from for the crashing of the waves and the musical ruckus. I started to feel uncomfortable that my comment was left hanging in the air, so I swung around. Jamie, the office clerk, was walking towards me, and that left me somewhat puzzled. I could have sworn I felt her nearer to me. ¡°Milla, come, we¡¯re about to cut the cake!¡± she said, gesturing me over enthusiastically. I got up and went over to her. As I walked, the grainy sand prickling the soles of my feet, I felt the same presence looming behind me. I shook it off,and distracted myself by entertaining the idea ofbeing the director of my ownbiopic. *** It was pitch black. I¡¯ve performed the necessarysteps: guided meditation, aromatherapy, no blue-light devices an hour before bed. But there I lay¨C3 in the morning and eyes still wide open, staring into nothing. My insomnia episodes were rare but when it struck, it struck hard. I foresaw how the night would pan out: a few hours wallowing in my past mistakes, another few hours worrying about my unchecked to-do list, and the last few minutes groggily rushing as I got ready for work. I spun on my bed and faced the wall. The physical exhaustion was taking a toll on my mind, and I became angrier at myself. I was in a vicious cycle: my stress was keeping me up, and my being up was fueling my stress. I squeezed my eyes shut and counted sheep as a last resort. I had made it to the 135th sheep when I heard a shuffle behind me, and sensed the same presence I felt back at the beach. I froze. I tried to convince myself that my sleep-deprived mind was just playing tricks on me. I reverted my focus on the white, fluffy sheep. 136¡­ 137¡­ 152¡­ no¡­ 138¡­ The shuffling got louder, nearer, and I began counting the sheep out loud instead. ¡°164¡­ 169¡­ ahh¡­ 1¡­ 2¡­ 3¡­¡± ¡°Hello?¡± a deep voice interrupted my count, and I screamed my lungs out.