《Reflection》


 The Dream

    I lay on my bed, the curtains drawn tight, only a sliver of light slipping through the fabric. The room was dark, suffocating almost, but I didn¡¯t mind. The glow from the laptop screen in front of me was enough, its light flickering against the shadows. My eyes were glued to the screen, watching some random gameplay video with no commentary. It didn¡¯t matter what game it was. The action on the screen was just noise¡ªmeaningless distraction, like the rest of my life.


    I¡¯m supposed to be doing something. I know that. I should get off this damn bed, step out into the world, find a job, do something with my life. But every time I think about it, every time I convince myself that I¡¯ll start, that I¡¯ll actually make the change, I feel this... weight. This invisible force that keeps me anchored to this bed, to this room, to this routine.


    Get outside. Find a job. Get healthy. Reconnect with my family. It sounds so simple when you write it down, doesn¡¯t it? When it¡¯s just a list, a series of checkboxes waiting to be ticked. But I know¡ªdeep down¡ªthat nothing¡¯s going to change. Not for me.


    What¡¯s the point? I¡¯ve been here, doing the same thing, for so long. Comfort is a trap. It lulls you into believing that nothing¡¯s wrong, that you¡¯re fine just the way you are. Except I¡¯m not fine. I¡¯m not even close. But I can¡¯t bring myself to care. I¡¯ve gotten too comfortable in my own misery, and the thought of change... it scares me. More than I care to admit.


    I think about my dad sometimes. I know he¡¯s disappointed in me. He doesn¡¯t say it. He doesn¡¯t need to. It¡¯s in the way he looks at me, in the quiet sighs when I ask for another handout, another excuse to keep drifting through life. I¡¯d like to think I¡¯m different from him, that I won¡¯t end up like him¡ªsitting in the same chair, day after day, wasting his life away. But I¡¯m already there. I¡¯m already becoming him.


    I can¡¯t get away from it. I can¡¯t escape the fact that this is me, this is what I¡¯ve become. The realization cuts deeper every time, and yet, I can¡¯t move. I can''t change.


    Somewhere along the way, sleep crept in, slowly overtaking my thoughts, dragging me into darkness.


    I didn¡¯t know when it happened, whether I fell asleep willingly or if it just happened by accident. But the next thing I knew, I was standing in a room filled with warmth. My family was there, gathered around the dinner table. My mom, my dad, my siblings, all of them laughing, talking. It felt real. It felt so real. I could almost taste the food on my tongue, hear the clinking of silverware against plates. The familiar sound of their voices was like a lifeline, pulling me out of the suffocating dark.


    I was different in this dream. I stood tall, healthy, confident. Dressed well. I didn¡¯t feel the weight of my body dragging me down. I was part of something. I was contributing, not just existing. My dad looked at me, his face¡ªhis proud face¡ªlooked like it belonged to a completely different person. I was the son he¡¯d always wanted.


    For the first time in so long, I didn¡¯t feel like a disappointment. I could feel the pride radiating off him, like I was the man I was supposed to be.


    But it wasn¡¯t real.


    Then, as dreams often do, the scene shifted. I was still at the table, but something was wrong. My eyes caught sight of myself¡ªof me.


    The greasy, bloated version of myself. The version that haunts me every time I look in the mirror. The version of myself that¡¯s too weak to change.


    I froze, caught in a strange sort of disbelief as I looked at him¡ªat me. And he looked right back at me. His eyes were cold, void of any emotion, but there was something worse¡ªdisgust. His eyes narrowed, and the contempt on his face rattled me. My heart stopped. He didn¡¯t just look at me. He looked through me, like I was a failure, a waste.


    And I could feel it. I could feel that he hated me, and in that instant, I hated him right back. But at the same time, it wasn¡¯t just him I hated. It was me. It was everything I¡¯d become.


    I wanted to scream, to fight it, to change something. But I couldn¡¯t. My body was frozen, paralyzed, trapped in this dream. The disgust in my reflection¡¯s eyes was unbearable. The weight of it... it crushed me.


    And just like that, I woke up.


    But waking up didn¡¯t feel like a relief. It felt like a nightmare had spilled into my reality.


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    I was back in my room, the same dim, filthy space I¡¯d been in before. The same dark room, the same laptop screen flickering its lifeless light, and the same heavy, suffocating silence.


    Except this time, something was different. I didn¡¯t feel like I was in control of my body. My limbs... they felt like they didn¡¯t belong to me. I didn¡¯t even want to move.


    But my body moved on its own, like some stranger was controlling it. I sat up, unbidden. My hands, uncooperative, found their way to the clutter around me. They started picking up clothes, stacking them neatly, wiping down the dust, organizing the chaos. I couldn¡¯t stop them.


    I felt trapped inside my own skin, watching in horror as my body moved without my consent. It was like I was watching someone else¡¯s hands do the work, but it was my body, my mind, caged inside, powerless to stop it. It didn¡¯t make sense. I didn¡¯t make sense.


    It was terrifying, but... it was also a relief.


    Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized I didn¡¯t have to decide. I didn¡¯t have to choose. I didn¡¯t have to face the weight of what I was supposed to be, what I had to become, all at once. I could just... let it happen. Let my body do the work I couldn¡¯t. The thought was both horrifying and comforting.


    A part of me wanted to scream, to fight, to wrestle my own body back into submission. But another part of me, the part that had been too tired to fight for so long, just wanted to let go. To let my body do the things I couldn¡¯t find the strength to do for myself.


    The motions continued, smooth and deliberate. My body moved through the clutter like a machine. Trash¡ªheaps of it, piles of crumpled papers, empty bags, food wrappers, cans of soda I never finished¡ªwas picked up and thrown away. I wiped down surfaces, organized the mess with an efficiency that felt foreign. The chaos was gone in a way I never could¡¯ve imagined.


    Then I opened the fridge. What I saw made my stomach churn. Expired food, old takeout containers that had turned into science experiments. Vegetables wilted and shriveled. Leftovers bloated and unappetizing. Without thinking, my hands began tossing it all into a garbage bag, sweeping it out of the fridge and onto the floor. The smell lingered, an olfactory reminder of everything I¡¯d neglected.


    My body moved to the phone. Without even understanding why, I found myself ordering groceries. The impulse was automatic¡ªvegetables, eggs, rice¡ªsimple, but necessary. It didn¡¯t matter if I was fully aware of what I was doing. It was happening without my command.


    Then the doorbell rang.


    I blinked, slowly, still caught in the haze of confusion. The doorbell. I moved before my brain could even process it. I walked to the door, opened it. There stood the delivery man, holding bags of food.


    ¡°Uh¡­ hi. Your order,¡± he said, holding them out.


    ¡°Right, yeah, okay.¡± My voice sounded distant, unsure, as if someone else was speaking. I took the bags from him, fingers fumbling slightly. Whether it was exhaustion or disconnection, I couldn¡¯t tell.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I mumbled, stepping back to let him leave, but I couldn¡¯t stop staring at the bags in my hands. I felt more confused than before.


    He hesitated. ¡°Everything... alright?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Uh... yeah,¡± I said, the words slipping out slow and heavy. ¡°Fine.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± he said, blinking a few times, unsure. ¡°Well... Have a great day.¡±


    "You... too"


    I shut the door behind him, not even sure if he was still standing there. My brain was stuck, racing between what I¡¯d just done and the strange detachment I felt.


    I stared at the bags for what felt like an eternity, unsure what I was supposed to do next. What was I supposed to do?


    The phone rang, but I didn¡¯t hear it right away. When I finally noticed, it had been going for a while. My eyes were still locked on the bags, and my body moved on autopilot to grab the phone.


    ¡°Hey, how¡¯s everything going?¡± My mom¡¯s voice was warm, familiar, offering comfort in this otherwise empty moment.


    I almost told her what was happening¡ªwhat was happening to me¡ªbut the words didn¡¯t come. I felt a strange hesitation in my throat, like I had forgotten how to speak truth. My tongue felt heavy, like I was holding back something I couldn¡¯t name.


    ¡°I¡¯m... good,¡± I said, finally. My voice sounded distant. ¡°How are you guys?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re good, son. How¡¯s your day been?¡± she asked, but there was something in her tone, a softness I hadn¡¯t heard before. She was worried, and it twisted my stomach in a way I didn¡¯t know how to respond to.


    ¡°It¡¯s alright... just¡ªjust been doing some things around here.¡±


    There was a pause. I felt the silence grow heavy. I wanted to tell her what was really going on, but the words didn¡¯t come. Why couldn¡¯t I be honest? Why couldn¡¯t I tell her what I was feeling, what I was losing?


    ¡°Anything else?¡± My dad¡¯s voice cracked through the fog, warm but tentative. ¡°You feeling alright?¡±


    The question felt too big. I almost wanted to confess everything¡ªthe fear, the confusion, the strange loss of self¡ªbut I stopped myself. The hesitation lingered in the air.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± I said, though I didn¡¯t believe it. ¡°Just... been thinking a lot about things, you know?¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± my mom said. ¡°That¡¯s good to hear. What¡¯s next?¡±


    I blinked. Suddenly, I wasn¡¯t sure. What was next?


    ¡°I... I don¡¯t know.¡± The words felt like an afterthought. ¡°Might look for work. Something real, I guess.¡±


    It was as if the words were coming from a version of myself that still had hope. A version that hadn¡¯t forgotten how to dream.


    ¡°You¡¯re doing alright, son,¡± my dad¡¯s voice softened, reassuring me more than I expected. ¡°Just don¡¯t overdo it. Take things one step at a time.¡±


    One step at a time. That was the line that stuck with me. One step.


    I blinked again, the weight of his words sinking in. I was still here. Still alive. But I wasn¡¯t sure if I was still me.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said, the words leaving my mouth like a sigh. ¡°One step at a time.¡±


    The call ended, and I put the phone down.


    For the first time since I woke up, I realized I wasn¡¯t sure who was in control anymore.

 The Bodys Control

    The dream returned that night, but it was different this time. The air felt dense, thick with a sense of purpose¡ªas though the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to unfold. I stood tall, and the shift wasn¡¯t just in how my body felt; it was in the way I carried myself. The weight that had always burdened me was gone, replaced by something far more powerful¡ªconfidence, purpose. It was a feeling that felt foreign but right, like a muscle I¡¯d never used suddenly snapping into place. My clothes were sharp, tailored perfectly to my form. I didn¡¯t feel constricted, didn¡¯t feel the familiar tightness of skin I often hated. Instead, there was a lightness, a strength in my bones that was completely new.


    My father sat across from me, his gaze not just proud, but adoring, like sunlight warming my skin. I could feel it, radiating from him, filling the room like a blanket. This was the look I always imagined¡ªwhat I thought he would give me if I ever became someone worth admiring. A man who had done something with his life. A man who had made something of himself. He smiled, and for the first time, I didn¡¯t feel like I was failing. I wasn¡¯t just meeting expectations¡ªI had exceeded them.


    ¡°This is what I always knew you could be,¡± he said, his voice steady, warm.


    And for the first time, I believed him.


    It felt real. More real than anything I¡¯d ever known. I could almost convince myself this was who I was meant to be¡ªnot the weak, stumbling version of myself I had become, but this stronger, more capable version.


    But then, the dream shifted. Just a flicker at first¡ªsomething small in the background¡ªbut it was enough to unsettle me. I turned my head, and there, sitting across from me at the table, was me. The me I always saw when I looked in the mirror¡ªthe bloated, greasy version. The version that had never lived up to anyone¡¯s expectations, especially my own. The version I hated with every fiber of my being.


    I froze.


    It wasn¡¯t just a reflection. This... this was a distortion of me. His¡ªmy¡ªeyes were cold, hollow. No warmth, no life. Just emptiness, a vacant stare that seemed to burn through me, dissecting every flaw, every mistake, every failure I had ever made. His mouth was set in a hard line, like he couldn¡¯t bear to be in the same room as me. And then, he looked at me. Not just looked¡ªhe stared¡ªthrough me, like he could see all the ways I had let myself down. The weight of his gaze was crushing, seeping into my bones, suffocating me with every second. I wanted to scream, to escape, but my body wouldn¡¯t move. I was paralyzed, a puppet with no strings to cut.


    I hated him. But more than that, I hated myself. The disappointment was overwhelming. It was like standing under a heavy, suffocating weight that I could never escape. I wanted to break free, to fight, to change, but my body refused to obey. I was trapped inside myself, helpless.


    And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the dream ended. The heaviness lingered, gnawing at my chest, clinging to my skin as I woke.


    The morning light filtered through the curtains, but it didn¡¯t bring warmth. It only highlighted the dullness in the air, the sense that something was wrong. I didn¡¯t want to get out of bed, didn¡¯t want to face the day. But I couldn¡¯t stay in bed forever. I tried to shake off the remnants of the dream, tried to ignore the feeling of unease that still clung to me.


    When I stood up, I felt... off. My body moved without me. I didn¡¯t remember getting up. I didn¡¯t remember getting dressed. The steps were already measured, the clothes already on. My mind wasn¡¯t awake¡ªat least, it didn¡¯t feel like it was. I wasn¡¯t driving this, and yet here I was, walking through the motions like a machine with a broken connection to its operator.


    My hands moved like they had a plan. The motions were too precise, too automatic. I should have felt the usual resistance, the hesitation before facing the world, but there was none. Instead, I just... moved.


    I forced myself to focus. Was I sleepwalking? No, that didn¡¯t feel right. This wasn¡¯t sleep. This was something else. Something I couldn¡¯t place. But my legs carried me through the motions¡ªdown the hall, to the kitchen, out the door. No decision-making, no thought. Just action. It wasn¡¯t me. It couldn¡¯t be.


    The air outside was sharp against my skin, the scent of damp earth from the park reaching me in faint waves. But it felt like I was there in my body, but not in my body. My legs moved faster than I intended, each step swift and purposeful, like they had a plan that didn¡¯t involve me. I felt like a spectator, looking through someone else¡¯s eyes. Detached. Disconnected.


    I tried to break the cycle. I told myself to stop. Told myself to feel. But nothing happened. The body didn¡¯t listen.


    I don¡¯t know how long I wandered, but when I returned to the apartment, hours had passed. Hours I couldn¡¯t account for. I couldn¡¯t remember the walk back. Couldn¡¯t remember what I¡¯d done in between. My body had moved on its own, doing things I couldn¡¯t stop. I showered and cleaned up, but the strange sense of being out of control lingered. It was like someone else was living my life for me.


    Then I watched. I watched as my body sat down at the desk and opened the laptop. It wasn¡¯t me. I didn¡¯t want to apply for jobs. I didn¡¯t want to do anything. But my hands¡ªmy body¡ªbegan typing, searching for job openings. Public interviews. Companies around the city. I wanted to scream, but no sound came. I couldn¡¯t control the words that flickered on the screen. IT support. Customer service. Clerical work. Jobs that fit neatly within the scope of my diploma, but none of them felt like my decision.


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    The body didn¡¯t stop. It kept moving, clicking, saving, organizing. It mapped out routes for interviews. It planned everything as if this was normal. Like this had always been part of the plan. I wasn¡¯t in charge. I wasn¡¯t in my life. I was just watching it unfold like a show on a screen. A passive observer.


    I wanted to scream. To stop. But my mouth didn¡¯t open. My chest tightened, a pressure building behind my ribs. I couldn¡¯t control anything. Why wasn¡¯t I in control? Was I losing my mind?


    Then, it did something I could never have done. It went to the barber. A clean shave. A fresh haircut. A new suit. The suit fit like it was meant for me, but it felt wrong. It felt foreign. The man I saw in the mirror wasn¡¯t me. He wasn¡¯t anyone I recognized. He was confident. He was in control. But it wasn¡¯t me. It couldn¡¯t be.


    The interviews didn¡¯t go well.


    The first was at a small IT firm. I entered the sterile-smelling office, trying to maintain composure in the sharp new suit that didn¡¯t feel like mine. I was led into a small room with a middle-aged man, his thick glasses glinting under the fluorescent lights.


    ¡°So, tell me a little about yourself,¡± he said, his eyes scanning my resume.


    My body was calm, posture straight, hands not trembling. Inside, I was a wreck. The words didn¡¯t feel like mine when I opened my mouth.


    ¡°I¡ªI¡¯m a recent graduate,¡± I said, my voice cracking. ¡°I¡¯ve been, uh... looking for work, and... I¡¯m eager to, you know... start somewhere.¡±


    He nodded, but the pause between us felt heavy. My body was still, but I could feel the awkwardness bubbling up inside me.


    ¡°Tell me why you specifically applied to this company?¡± he asked.


    My mouth went dry. No words came. But then, my body took over, as if on cue.


    ¡°I¡¯ve always liked problem-solving,¡± I muttered, the words not mine. ¡°And... you guys do a lot of that, right?¡±


    The interviewer didn¡¯t seem convinced. His smile tightened as he closed the file on his desk.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be in touch,¡± he said, his tone polite but distant. ¡°Thanks for your time.¡±


    And still, the detachment remained. I barely felt the sting of his dismissal. I should¡¯ve been devastated, but I wasn¡¯t. It was like I had become numb.


    The next interview, with a customer service company, was worse. The room was more welcoming, but the same detachment crept over me as soon as I walked in. The young woman interviewing me smiled, but I could sense her scrutiny.


    ¡°So, why do you want to work here?¡± she asked, her voice bright but measured.


    The body didn¡¯t hesitate. It sat confidently, but I could feel the discomfort, the dissonance. I opened my mouth to answer, but the words felt hollow.


    ¡°I want to be part of a team that helps people,¡± I said, the words coming out like a script. ¡°I¡¯ve always been good at talking to people, and I believe in good customer service.¡±


    She didn¡¯t seem impressed. She jotted something down on her notepad.


    ¡°We¡¯re looking for someone with more experience,¡± she said. ¡°This might not be a good fit.¡±


    The marked points in the map continue to reduce, so did my will to contribute. By the time I reached next interview, the detachment was complete. I had lost all sense of personal involvement in the process.


    The interviewer, a stern-looking woman with sharp features, gestured for me to sit down.


    ¡°Tell me about yourself,¡± she asked, her tone clipped.


    But this time, my body took over, words flowing like a practiced script.


    ¡°I¡¯ve recently completed my diploma, and I¡¯m looking for a role where I can apply my skills and grow. I¡¯ve always enjoyed problem-solving and working with people.¡±


    Her eyes narrowed slightly. ¡°Problem-solving, you say? Tell me about a specific time you had to troubleshoot an issue under pressure.¡±


    I could feel the body straighten even further, its shoulders rolling back. Words that I never would have thought of came to me, spilling out before I even had time to second-guess.


    ¡°Well,¡± my voice came out smooth, ¡°during my final project in college, we were working on a simulation system for data management. A few days before the deadline, the software crashed during the test run, and I had to find a workaround to salvage the project. I identified the issue within the code, implemented a temporary fix, and then worked with the team to make sure the system ran as smoothly as possible for the presentation. It was a stressful time, but we managed to deliver on time.¡±


    Her expression shifted, a flicker of approval crossing her face. She leaned forward, clearly more engaged. ¡°Impressive. Can you walk me through the process of identifying the root cause of an issue like that?¡±


    The body was in perfect control, articulating the steps with precision, while I¡ªwatched.


    ¡°Well, first, I checked the system logs to identify any anomalies, then I tested a few modules individually to isolate the malfunction. After pinpointing the faulty code, I worked with the team to quickly debug and patch the system. It¡¯s a methodology I¡¯ve always relied on when troubleshooting.¡±


    She nodded thoughtfully. ¡°What motivates you to continue learning in this field?¡±


    I almost didn¡¯t know how to answer. But then the body spoke again,


    ¡°I¡¯m driven by the challenge. I know that in tech, there¡¯s always something new to learn, always something to improve. I want to be in an environment where I¡¯m constantly challenged, where I can push my skills further and make a real difference.¡±


    There was no hesitation in my voice now. The body was in perfect sync with the words, effortlessly speaking what I had never been able to express.


    She paused, then set down her pen. There was a long silence as she studied me, and I could feel a subtle shift in the air. Her body language was different¡ªless guarded, more open.


    ¡°You have a lot of potential,¡± she said after a moment, her tone softer.


    She leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. Then she glanced at my resume again before looking back at me.


    ¡°One more thing,¡± she said, her voice steady. ¡°There¡¯s a gap between your graduation and now. Could you tell me what led to that delay? Why the gap?¡±


    The words hit me like a jolt. I didn¡¯t have an answer ready. The body didn¡¯t take over this time. It just sat still, waiting for me to respond. The pressure, the weight of the question, was like a wall I couldn¡¯t climb.


    And I didn''t know how to answer.

 Acceptance in the Silence

    The question lingered like an unwelcome guest, refusing to leave. ¡°There¡¯s a gap between your graduation and now. Could you tell me what led to that delay? Why the gap?¡± the interviewer asked, her gaze flickering from the resume in her hands to my face.


    The words hung in the air, heavy. The gap¡ªwhat did it mean? It wasn¡¯t just a blank space on paper. It wasn¡¯t merely about missing work experience or skipped opportunities. It was all the things I hadn¡¯t done. The moments I had stood still, unable to move forward. The fear of failure, of change, of disappointment¡ªit all lived in that gap.


    I could feel my pulse quicken, a tightness forming in my chest. I should answer. I should say something. A simple, vague response¡ª¡°I was focusing on personal growth,¡± or ¡°I needed time to figure things out.¡± But those didn¡¯t feel true. The truth was more complicated. More painful. And harder to say.


    I had been avoiding life, waiting for something to change without ever taking a step. It had been months of stalling, of being afraid to face what I needed to confront: my fear of moving forward.


    The silence between us stretched on. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. My words were stuck, suffocating.


    Then, almost on cue, my body moved. It was as if something else had taken control. My lips parted, and a calm, steady voice emerged.


    ¡°I¡¯ve spent the last few months reevaluating my goals and focusing on the direction I want to take. It was important for me to make sure I was ready for the next step, with the right mindset,¡± my voice said, smooth and controlled, as though I had practiced it.


    I wasn¡¯t speaking¡ªI was spectating. The words came, but they felt disconnected from me. As if my body knew what to do, and I was just along for the ride. The interviewer nodded, a small smile tugging at the edge of her lips.


    ¡°I understand,¡± she said, glancing back at my resume. ¡°We¡¯ll be in touch,¡± she added.


    And just like that, the interview ended. No relief. No exhilaration. No tension. Just an emptiness that seemed almost familiar now.


    I stood, shook her hand, and left the room. My body moved, but my mind wasn¡¯t there. I didn¡¯t know what had just happened, or why I even cared. Everything felt distant. My thoughts floated, detached, as if I were watching from a distance.


    The rest of the day passed in a blur. Each interview unfolded the same way¡ªautomatic. My body taking charge, moving through the motions, while I simply watched. I felt no connection to the words I spoke, to the smiles I forced, to the questions I answered. It was as though I was outside myself, observing the performance, but not participating.


    By evening, I had lost track of time. I sat in the apartment, staring out the window at the city below, as if I were watching someone else¡¯s life. Thoughts drifted in and out, but I didn¡¯t try to hold onto them anymore. It all felt so far away, like trying to grasp water with my hands. Nothing mattered. And slowly, I realized I was accepting that it didn¡¯t need to.


    That night, the dream came again. But this time, something was different. The anger, the frustration¡ªit was quieter. The version of me sitting across from the table still looked as cold and distant as before, but I didn¡¯t feel the need to fight him anymore. I didn¡¯t need to scream or escape. I simply... watched.


    There was a strange peace in that detachment. A quietness where once there had been noise. I wasn¡¯t angry at myself, or anyone else. I wasn¡¯t disappointed.


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    The next morning, I woke with a sense of calm. The weight of self-doubt seemed lighter, even if it wasn¡¯t completely gone.


    I moved through the morning mechanically, the body checking my inbox, a routine I hadn¡¯t thought about in ages. And there it was, a notification on the screen. My heart skipped¡ªa faint flutter¡ªbefore I clicked on it.


    The email was formal, direct: I had made it. A six-month probation before becoming a full-time employee. A modest stipend. The words swam in front of me, but for a moment, I was more aware of the strange thrill that shot through my chest.


    I looked at the email again, this time reading the words more carefully. *I had done it.* A brief flash of excitement. The kind of accomplishment that used to ignite a fire inside me. But it was fleeting, and that fire quickly faded. It was gone before I could even grasp it.


    I wasn¡¯t sure what to do with this. But the body knew.


    I printed out the attached offer letter, as if to make it more tangible, more substantial. I set it aside, grabbed my phone, and began making arrangements. I called my parents.


    ¡°Hey, Mom. Dad,¡± I said, the words slipping out with an ease that surprised me. ¡°I¡¯ve got good news. I... made it. I got the job.¡±


    ¡°That''s wonderful!¡± my mother said, her voice filled with warmth. ¡°We¡¯re so proud of you. When can we come over to celebrate?¡±


    ¡°Tonight,¡± I replied, already moving toward the kitchen. ¡°Dinner at my place?¡±


    ¡°Yes, of course. We¡¯ll be there at seven.¡±


    I hung up the phone, then looked down at the offer letter again. It felt too... impersonal. Like a piece of paper that didn¡¯t belong to me. Still, I didn¡¯t stop to wonder why. The body moved on instinct. The body went to the store, picked up the ingredients, and found myself chopping vegetables, stirring a sauce, seasoning a roast. I wasn¡¯t interested in cooking¡ªnot really¡ªbut there I was. The rhythm of the action was familiar, automatic. It felt like something I had done before, even though I hadn¡¯t.


    I didn¡¯t stop to wonder why. There was no need. The body knew what it was doing. And I¡ªwell, I was too tired to question it.


    When my parents arrived, the house felt alive. The door creaked open, and I heard their footsteps. I heard my father¡¯s hearty laugh before I saw him, his hand clapping me on the shoulder. My mother, ever the softer presence, smiled warmly as she took in the table set with care, her eyes scanning the spread of food. Her fingers lingered over the back of my chair before resting on my arm, a light touch that was full of expectation.


    I smiled, but it didn¡¯t reach my eyes. It wasn¡¯t a smile that meant anything. Just a movement of muscles in the shape of a smile.


    I set the offer letter down beside my father, watching his reaction as he picked it up. His eyebrows raised slowly, then the smile spread across his face. He patted my back¡ªtwice, hard. There was pride there, real pride. But I didn¡¯t feel anything at all. My heart didn¡¯t race. I didn¡¯t feel the glow of achievement, or the warmth of familial pride. His words felt like they came from a distant place.


    ¡°Good job, son,¡± my father said, his voice thick with satisfaction. ¡°This is what we¡¯ve been waiting for.¡±


    The praise seemed to echo in the empty space inside me. I nodded, though I wasn¡¯t sure what for.


    Dinner continued¡ªclinking silverware, the rhythm of conversation filling the gaps. The excitement in my chest remained, but it was the kind of excitement you feel when you¡¯re watching someone else¡¯s happiness, someone else¡¯s life.


    ¡°I¡¯ve always known you could do it,¡± my mother added softly, her eyes flickering over me. ¡°We¡¯re so proud.¡±


    Her voice, her smile¡ªit should have meant something. But it didn¡¯t. I wasn¡¯t there, not really. I could see her pride, I could hear her joy, but I wasn¡¯t part of it. My hand reached for the plate, my lips moved to speak in all the right places, but I wasn¡¯t feeling anything.


    Even when my mother¡¯s hands found mine, pressing them gently, her face alive with concern and quiet affection, I couldn¡¯t feel it. Not really. She squeezed my fingers, her expression searching mine, but I had nothing to give her. Her smile was soft, but I couldn¡¯t return it. My own lips curled upward in a reflex I didn¡¯t even have to think about. A smile that didn¡¯t reach my eyes.


    They were happy. Proud. But I was absent. Just a shadow of myself, moving through the motions. It didn¡¯t feel wrong. It didn¡¯t feel anything at all.


    Dinner continued, but my mind wandered. I thought, for a brief moment, about reaching across the table, about leaning into the warmth of the moment. But it felt... too far away. Like trying to touch something just beyond my grasp. I let my gaze drift, the small flicker of desire to be present swallowed by the growing void within me. It was easier to keep watching, to stay distant, to hold onto the silence that seemed to envelop everything.


    And for the first time, I realized I didn¡¯t know if I was even part of it anymore.

 The Routine

    The days flowed like the rhythm of a well-practiced dance, one that I didn¡¯t choreograph. The body moved with mechanical precision¡ªno thought, just action. I went through the motions¡ªcook, exercise, stay updated with the news. A list, ticked off each day. Was this living?


    To fill the silence, I¡¯d adopted a puppy¡ªan eager, little creature, a burst of energy in the monotony. It brought movement to the house, a small joy to balance the weight of the routine. Each evening, after the usual rounds, I¡¯d take the dog for a walk. The same path. The same neighbors. Small talk. Pleasant smiles. But something was missing. I was there, but not really there.


    The puppy was the first to make me question it.


    ¡°Come on, boy, let¡¯s go,¡± I muttered, tugging on the leash. My movements were automatic, no hesitation. A steady pace, like a rhythm I¡¯d played a thousand times. The dog tugged at the leash, pulling me forward with a boundless enthusiasm that felt almost foreign to me. The simplicity of the moment was hypnotic¡ªthe cool night air against my skin, the rustling of leaves, the occasional laugh of a neighbor jogging by. And yet, emptiness lingered. Was I just... existing here?


    I stopped, bent down to ruffle the puppy¡¯s fur. ¡°You¡¯re getting the hang of this, aren¡¯t you, buddy?¡± The dog looked up at me, panting happily. But as I smiled, something stirred within me. Was I longing for that enthusiasm? For that spontaneity? Was I missing something in the way the puppy experienced the world?


    I watched him, lost in thought. Did he ever wonder if he was just... living, too? The puppy didn¡¯t question. He simply was¡ªalive in each moment, moving forward without thought. Something I hadn¡¯t done in a long time.


    He was a mirror to a life I¡¯d lost touch with¡ªone without overthinking, without needing to understand every little motion. The dog just was. I, on the other hand, felt the weight of every choice, every step. The dog¡¯s joy was free. Mine was... heavy.


    Maybe that¡¯s what I needed.


    The porch garden was another part of the routine¡ªanother task to complete. A handful of potted plants, requiring the same care each day: water them in the morning, trim the dead leaves, make sure they get enough sunlight. Simple. Automatic. But the cool soil pressed into my fingers. I rearranged the ivy for better sunlight, but something inside me resisted¡ªwhy was I doing this? It wasn¡¯t like I was a gardener.


    ¡°Seems like you need more water today,¡± I murmured, tilting the watering can, the movement as natural as breathing.


    But the question lingered: Was this my choice, or was I just following?


    What is control, really?


    The question gnawed at me, but I couldn¡¯t answer. So, I began experimenting. I tried small changes¡ªaltering the order of events, stepping in to see if I could force the body to diverge from its course.


    One morning, it began without me. The body stirred, stretching, yawning, moving through its motions¡ªbrushing teeth, getting dressed, making breakfast. It was as if the day had started without my direction. I didn¡¯t choose any of this. It was happening without me.


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    I tried to step in. I willed the body to stop, to change course, but there was resistance. The body picked up the coffee mug, and I willed it to stop. It didn¡¯t. My hand tried to guide it, but it moved with practiced confidence. Mechanical. Autonomous.


    I clenched my fingers tighter around the mug, trying to stop it from reaching my lips, but it felt like a foreign object¡ªheavy, impossible to control, as if my own hand was operating without my consent. My muscles stiffened, resisting, but it moved on. My body moved as if it knew better than I did, pulling the mug closer, my mouth parting to accept it.


    I tried to resist, to exert my will, but something inside me rebelled. I wasn¡¯t in control. Maybe I was never meant to be. Then, it hit me: What if the body knows better than I do?


    It wasn¡¯t simple. It felt like a river I was trying to divert. The harder I pushed against it, the deeper it carved its path. I was caught in its current, helpless to influence it, just as a tree cannot decide the way the wind will blow through its branches.


    Maybe that¡¯s when I realized: Maybe I wasn¡¯t meant to fight this. Maybe the fight wasn¡¯t the point.


    ¡°Hey, buddy,¡± I said to the puppy, curled at my feet. ¡°Isn¡¯t it strange how we just do things, without even thinking about it?¡±


    The dog didn¡¯t respond, of course. It didn¡¯t need to. He didn¡¯t question. He didn¡¯t try to control the world around him. He simply lived. And in that simplicity, I saw a truth I hadn¡¯t seen before.


    Maybe it wasn¡¯t about control. Maybe it was about letting go.


    A few days later, as the evening light dimmed, I found myself reflecting again on the routine¡ªon the dreams that had been haunting me, persistent yet shifting each night. I wanted to understand them. I wanted to find the link between them, to grasp whatever thread they were trying to weave.


    It was then that I remembered the journal¡ªthe one my parents had given me years ago. It had always been there, tucked away in the drawer, a gift with a simple instruction: Write down your days, no matter how trivial. It¡¯ll help you understand.


    But I¡¯d never written in it. It never felt necessary. Until tonight.


    I reached for the journal, its cold surface against my fingertips. Simple. Unadorned. But in my hands, it felt different¡ªimportant, heavy with promise. I wasn¡¯t just watching anymore. I was participating.


    For a moment, I hesitated. The empty pages stared back at me, and doubt crept in. Would this truly help? Would writing change anything, or would it just be another routine? A decision hung in the air. I thought about putting it away, leaving it for another day, but I couldn¡¯t. I felt something stir.


    I opened it. The blank page stared back at me, and without thinking, my hand took the pen and began to write.


    March 8th, 2025.


    For a moment, I paused. Could a few words help me understand what was happening? Was I ready to confront it? The question flickered in my mind, but before I could answer, the pen moved, as if the rhythm couldn¡¯t be halted.


    The words flooded out effortlessly. It wasn¡¯t a mechanical task anymore. I could feel the shift, the quiet hum of something new. This was a breakthrough. The body no longer demanded control. It had accepted my conscious will. I knew this was an addition to the routine¡ªsomething I would continue, something that would become a part of me. For the first time, I felt fully alive.


    The pen moved across the page, strokes natural, as if it had written these words before. The process felt like muscle memory. A part of me had been in charge, but now it was something else. Something that had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged.


    I paused, reading over the words. A small, unbidden smile curled at my lips. This wasn¡¯t about control anymore. This was about partnership. The body had followed my will, yes, but it had become part of it. It wasn¡¯t just my body anymore. It was ours.


    The tension in my chest eased, and I felt a quiet excitement for tomorrow¡ªnot because I could control it, but because I could live it. I closed the journal, a sense of fulfillment settling deep inside. The stillness of the room felt different now¡ªalive, vibrant.


    I wasn¡¯t just going through the motions anymore. I had found my place in this rhythm¡ªnot as a passive observer, but as someone who could flow with it, who could be part of the dance. A rhythm I hadn¡¯t created, but one I had learned to accept. And finally, the dance felt like mine.