"Sometimes, waking up in a different world isn't about escaping life — it's about remembering who you are beneath it all. This story is a glimpse into that forgotten part of me."
The moment I opened my eyes, I knew something was wrong — or maybe, finally, something was right.
The air felt different.
It wasn’t heavy the way mornings usually were for me.
It smelled like rain, like freedom, like a story I hadn’t been brave enough to write yet.
I sat up slowly, half-expecting my buzzing phone, half-waiting for someone to call out for me — but there was nothing.
Only silence.
And an endless, wild landscape stretching far beyond what my eyes could grasp.
The sky wasn’t one color — it kept changing, blending gold into crimson, turquoise into soft violet.
It moved with me, like it could hear my heartbeat.
I stood up, barefoot on soft grass that tickled my skin.
No expectations.
No reminders.
No one waiting for me to be the ‘good girl’ today.
For once, the world wasn’t holding up a mirror, judging how I smiled, how I spoke, how much space I took.
I smiled.
No — I grinned.
The kind of grin I usually swallowed down because someone might say it looked "too much."
I took one step forward, then another — and with every step, I felt lighter, as if I was peeling off layers of invisible weights.
I didn’t know where I was going, and for once, I didn’t care.
I wasn't searching for anyone.
Not a friend, not a savior, not even love.
Because deep down — in a place no one knew about — sometimes, all I ever wanted was to stop.
Stop answering, stop explaining, stop fixing.
Sometimes, all I wished for was a world that demanded absolutely nothing from me.
And somehow — impossibly — I had found it.
---
I kept walking until I saw it:
a small, crooked house standing in the middle of nowhere.
Not a mansion, not a palace.
It was imperfect, rough around the edges — and somehow, heartbreakingly perfect.
Like it had been built just for me.
Like it had been waiting.
I opened the door without knocking.
Inside, there was no furniture except a single wooden table, scratched and scarred like someone had lived here with their raw heart.
On the table was a single sheet of paper.
One line written in shaky handwriting:
"You don't have to be the hero here. Just be."
I stared at it.
And I swear, my hands shook.
Because nobody ever tells you that in real life.
No one ever says, “It’s okay if you’re tired. It’s okay if you’re not strong today. It’s okay if you just exist.”
In my real world, love is measured by sacrifice.
Success is measured by exhaustion.
Happiness is measured by how well you hide the cracks.
But not here.
Here, it was enough that I was breathing.
I touched the paper lightly, tracing the words with my fingertip, as if they might disappear if I blinked.
And then, something inside me — something old and tired and hungry — finally cracked open.
I collapsed into the only chair, laughing and crying at the same time, like some wild creature finally set free after years of being caged in manners and apologies.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn't trying to be anyone.
Not the responsible daughter.
Not the understanding friend.
Not the strong one who always "deals with it."
I was just... me.
Messy, selfish, beautiful, broken.
And it was enough.
---
Hours passed, or maybe minutes.
There was no clock to remind me.
No messages piling up.
No promises to keep.
I thought about how often I had swallowed my own dreams just to make space for others.
How many times I had said “It’s fine” when it wasn’t.
I thought about all the moments I had bit my tongue, made myself smaller, because someone else’s comfort mattered more than my own.
And a part of me — the part that still believed in fairy tales — wondered why I ever thought that was love.
Here, in this strange, impossible world, I realized something I had buried deep inside:
It’s not selfish to want peace.
It’s not selfish to want to be loved without earning it like a prize.
It’s not selfish to want a life where choosing yourself doesn’t make you the villain.
And I wanted it.
God, I wanted it.
---
Eventually, my eyelids grew heavy.
I curled up right there on the creaky chair, hugging my knees to my chest.
For the first time, I slept without fear.
Without guilt.
Without rehearsing tomorrow’s apologies.
And when I woke up — back in my real bed, in my real world — a sharp, silent grief clutched my chest.
The noise was back.
The weight was back.
The invisible armor I wore every day felt heavier than ever.
But there was something new inside me too.
Something small but fiercely alive.
A tiny piece of that other world — the world that asked nothing of me — was still burning somewhere in my ribcage.
And I realized I didn’t have to let it die.
I couldn’t move there forever.
But maybe I could carry it inside me.
Maybe I could start saying no sometimes.
Maybe I could stop apologizing for needing space.
Maybe I could forgive myself for choosing my own heart — even if the world didn't.
Maybe I could build little corners of that world here —
one boundary,
one messy laugh,
one honest moment at a time.
And maybe, just maybe, someday, I wouldn’t need to disappear into a dream world to feel like I mattered.
Because I'd know — deep down — that I always had.
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