I don't know how long I've been dreaming. It feels endless, like I'm living someone else's life—a life far removed from my own.

It began with my first baby steps, wobbly and uncertain. I remember the sound of cheers and laughter, though the faces in the memory blur like smoke. My first birthday party was filled with colors and joy, the taste of something sweet lingering on my tongue.

Then there was my first crush—her smile was radiant, her laugh infectious. I also remember my first real friend, a boy who shared his toys with me when no one else would. For a time, life in this dream was beautiful, filled with simple joys and fleeting moments of happiness.

But the dream darkened quickly. I was on a playground when my heart suddenly stopped. I collapsed, and everything faded to black. That was the first time I was truly afraid of dying.

When I woke, I learned the truth. I was sick. Very, very sick.

The years sped by like a blur, yet each day dragged on painfully slow. I grew older, moving from a small school filled with kids my age to another with teenagers who seemed much bigger than me. The sickness followed me everywhere, shadowing every step, every smile.

I still tried to live. I made new friends. I even fell in love—a love that felt so deep, so real, that it terrified me.

But the sickness… it was unrelenting. My body grew weaker, thinner, frailer with every passing year. I knew, deep down, that I wouldn't live to see old age. I didn't need a doctor to tell me—I just knew.

That knowledge changed me.

I began to push everyone away. Friends, family, even the one I loved. I told myself it was for their sake, to spare them the pain of seeing me waste away. But deep down, I knew it was also for me. I was scared. Scared of being alone when the end came. Scared of waiting for the inevitable.

I cursed the body I was born with. I cursed the life that felt like a cruel joke. And yet… I wished. Oh, how I wished for a different life. A better life. A body that wasn't so weak, a heart that wasn't so frail.

The dream dragged on.

In the end, I found myself in a stark white room, surrounded by machines. The beeping of the monitors was steady, methodical, as though they were mocking me with the inevitability of their rhythm.

I was strapped to machinery designed to keep me alive, though I couldn't help but laugh bitterly. Alive? This wasn't living. This was waiting.

The machine beside me began to slow, the beeping growing fainter. My breaths came shallow and labored. I could hear voices—doctors rushing into the room, calling out commands. They were trying to save me.

But it was too late.

In those final moments, I prayed. Not out loud, but in the deepest recesses of my mind. I prayed to whoever might be listening. I begged for another chance. Another life. I promised—no, swore—that I would do better. That I wouldn't push others away. That I wouldn't waste the life I was given.

The beeping stopped. The voices faded. Everything went silent.

And then it all ended.

…..

The first thing I felt was wetness—warm tears streaming down my cheeks. My eyes opened, and I stared at the familiar darkness of my room.

I lifted myself shakily from the pillow, my breath uneven, my heart pounding in my chest.

"A dream…?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

But it didn't feel like a dream. It felt too real. Too vivid. Too painful.

And for the first time in years, I didn't lay back down.