The dream returned that night, but this time, it felt different. The air was thick with something unspoken, as though the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for a shift. I stood tall—no longer bent by the weight I’d grown used to. The burden that had always clung to me was gone, replaced by something new. Confidence, purpose. It felt foreign, yet natural—like a muscle I’d never used suddenly snapping into place. My clothes were sharp, tailored to my form. I didn’t feel constricted. There was no tightness in my skin; instead, I felt light, as though my bones had become stronger, more capable.

  Across from me sat my father. His gaze was no longer the calculating one I remembered, filled with disappointment or quiet judgment. Now, it was warm, almost adoring—like sunlight spilling over my skin. It filled the room with a comfort I hadn’t realized I longed for. This was the look I’d always imagined: what I thought he would give me if I ever became someone worth admiring—a man who had done something, a man who had become what I was supposed to be. He smiled, and for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was failing. I was meeting his expectations—no, I had exceeded them.

  “This is what I always knew you could be,” he said, his voice steady and full of warmth.

  And for the first time, I believed him.

  It felt real. More real than anything I’d ever known. For a fleeting moment, I almost convinced myself this was who I was meant to be—not the weak, stumbling version of myself I had become, but this stronger, more capable version.

  But then, just as quickly as it had arrived, the dream shifted. A flicker at first, something small in the background. And then, it grew. I turned my head, and there—sitting across from me—was me. The other me. The version I saw every time I looked in the mirror: bloated, greasy, defeated. A man who never lived up to anyone’s expectations—especially my own.

  The shift wasn’t just in the reflection—it was in how he, how I, looked at myself. His—my—eyes were hollow, empty. No warmth. No life. Only the cold weight of disappointment, like a heavy hand pressing down on my chest. His mouth was set in a hard line, like he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as me. And then, those eyes—those eyes locked onto mine. Not just a gaze, but a stare that seemed to see everything. Every mistake. Every failure. Every way I had fallen short.

  I froze.

  I hated him. But worse than that—I hated myself. The weight of the disappointment was suffocating. It was like standing under a crushing pressure, unable to escape, unable to move. I wanted to fight, to run, to scream. But my body wouldn’t respond. I was trapped inside myself, paralyzed, helpless.

  And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the dream ended. The heaviness lingered, gnawing at my chest, settling in 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—at 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—down 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—my body—began 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—I’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—watched.

  “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—less 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.