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—what 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—it 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—“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—I 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—automatic. 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—it 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—a faint flutter—before 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—not really—but 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—well, 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—twice, 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—clinking 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—it 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.