HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY TOO:
– A Short Story
I.
I was born trapped somewhere, and I’m still not sure where that is. But this is neither here nor there. This world—where lost souls go, not to rest, but to perform hollow imitations of living, clinging to a memory they’re afraid to forget. I was meant to record whatever existed here, but the device, once humming with memories, had become just weight in my pocket—cold and silent.
Something was amiss—like time itself. How long had it been? Some buildings were run down, windows boarded up—casualties of the forgotten war. New glossy structures had sprung up unnoticed like spring leaves. But this is the end of summer. The city itself couldn’t decide which season to settle in, and this fragmented world reflected that confusion.
The river below, the one I watched every morning, sizzled into hot pink—a strange blend of nostalgia and energy, flowing endlessly. I took a deep breath, searching for something. The water smelled familiar, oddly comforting, but beneath the surface, something was off—something I couldn’t shake. I never thought I’d end up here again, though, it seems thoughts lie too.
Perched on the ledge of the bridge, I had a perfect view into the homestay—a familiar sight in an unfamiliar world. I sighed an internal relief. It was still there. The entrance had a glass panel at the top and bottom, so anyone shorter than five feet five would be cut off at the feet as they crossed the lobby. The woman at the front desk appeared in the top half of the glass view, framed by the light. For a moment, I’d forgotten why I had come. There was a familiarity about the way she moved. I could feel her pleasantly radiate. The guest she spoke with smiled, absorbed in her warmth, unaware that it was just a façade—like everything else in this place. Lost souls still had a sense of humor—perhaps that’s what kept grounded.
I took my time, drinking in the city’s lucid silhouette. My left eye throbbed under the evening light, as if the city resisted showing me too much. Some parts to fit the memory; others required a second glance. Still, I felt the picture of the puzzle was clear enough. I had already recorded everything here—long ago. So why bother to return, why here, of all places? My head eternally rumbled with questions, each one crashing against the next. I closed my eyes, the sensation easing a bit. I saw pure emptiness—velvety darkness, vast like an ocean, neither dense nor cold. I inhaled deeply, waiting as the warm air drifted into the nothingness. I wondered where it would lead—and whether I should even go there.
Fragments of my last dream had something to say. Working at Orphan taught me that the subconscious is the true mind. Training had sharpened me—my thoughts moved like clockwork—a machine programmed to recall every memory I’d ever encountered.
I woke from that daydream, the last one, assaulted by overenthusiastic fluorescent light, beaming like an interrogation. No luggage. No train ticket. I checked my pockets for my memory recording device. Nothing. Problems for later. The station attendant in a neat uniform stood over me, smiling lethargically. A pass materialized in his gloved hand, transferring to me in a dazzling light. He gave me a once-over, as if asking, Lost or drunk? Politely, he ushered me toward the giant universal clock. Its hands spun in every direction, casting shadows against the flow of time.
Zipping down the collar of my mock-turtleneck helped eased the nausea. I brushed back my bangs and checked my eyes in my reflection: dark trench coat, balloon pants, combat boots with faded soles—a Final Fantasy character stuck in the Matrix. Could be worse, I told myself. In my trench jacket was a crushed pastry and a faded photograph. Other than that, all I had on me was time. I turned away, leaving my reflection behind.
Now here I am, gazing at the past for answers to the future. Passively attempting to find my reason for being oddly put me at ease. Like I was born to wander far enough to wonder about what it this was all meant for. Joining Orphan was almost destiny, though I don’t remember any time before that. I’d seen so many worlds—each one unique and full of personality. Could I ever call one home?
The scene looked superficial in golden hour—beautiful, saturated, melted together, devoid of individuality. I took a glance at the window and saw no one there. My chest felt a pang of disappointment. Perhaps it’s all in my head.
“Perhaps you should settle down, then,” said a woman’s voice.
The river stopped churning. My attention dropped to the sidewalk, caught in the daze between consciousness and dreaming. But this wasn’t a dream, was it? Perhaps I was stuck in the moment before waking—feeling real and unreal at once. The woman stood there, fixated, almost as if she’d always been there.
“You’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t come down from there.”
Her tawny eyes peered up at me, aloof and curious like a cat’s. I froze, torn between coming up with something smart and not sounding stupid. After a moment of hesitation, I hopped down.
“It’s going to rain today,” she said.
It wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t raining, I thought. We started walking a wordless path, crossing an invisible line where the world behind us no longer existed. Streetlights burst into iridescent flames as we walked along the river.
She walked ahead, glancing down at her feet or nonchalantly at worldly things. I stole glances. The beret was new—at least, I hadn’t seen it before. Her hair showed a new personality. You’d think there were only so many colors in the world. She expressed the simplest things in new forms. Shoulder-length hair suited her, the way it framed her face—like art. A small smile played at her lips. At least something was familiar.
The buildings grew closer, more intimate. We squeezed through an alley, emerging onto a street saturated with neon and noise. People materialized from the shadows, becoming more solid with each step. A man spoke in a forgotten language as he sliced meat from a spit. Street vendors sold counterfeit goods that looked better than the real ones. A fortune teller winked at us. We exchanged a glance, raised our brows, and kept walking. Drunks laughed in drunk gibberish while traffic moved in strange yet organized chaos. Lost souls come alive in the night.
We passed a window displaying food and women in a flashing hologram. Digital steam curled, making my mouth water. I noticed I couldn’t see my reflection, but that comes with the territory. I turned to my left, and she was gone. My heart leapt. Sound vanished. A glittery woman grabbed my shoulder, a pig-faced man slobbered too close, and a menu with alien letters flagged my vision. I felt myself decomposing, my form crumbling along the streets. Then, a soft hand slipped into mine, and I clasped it firmly. The crowd and lights blurred in my peripheral vision as we hurried through another alley.
Artificial stars glimmered in the dark sky, and in front of me, a familiar waistline swayed like a pendulum—my white rabbit. We stopped beneath a neon sign with a microphone and Old-English text reading “SPOTLESS MIND.”
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Neither here nor there,” she replied.
I echoed her words silently. I’d been here before—I was sure of it, yet also unsure. Late nights are as distinguishable as long days. Thinking about it would get me nowhere. The insurmountable distance between now and then steadily grew. I was drawn to the neon light, flickering like a promise.
II.
“There’s no such thing as a perfect memory. It’s subjective, like art.” That’s lesson one. Well, there were lots of ‘lesson ones.’ Memories themselves are neutral events, like a piece of history. That was my mentor’s point during my first day of training at Orphan—our perceptions are what give them personality. So which moments belonged to me, and which were just borrowed?
He followed with an analogy about Warhol and Basquiat that I don’t remember too well. Maybe that was the point—not comprehending something but pretending to. I made up my own meaning. Don’t get lost in the sauce. You’ll jam up your jelly.
“If anything, just leave the personal things behind. If you want to last, that is.” I didn’t take his words too seriously back then, or anything for that matter. I was too caught up in my own fiery desperation, the kind that burns your insides and blinds you to everything but your need to carve out a purpose—any purpose. What I do remember is waking at dusk by the unreasonably calm bartender, who smiled—seeing it all before. I couldn’t imagine it getting worse than this. I was handed a tab. Perhaps there’s some wisdom in his words. Perhaps.
One last thing on memories.
The action of remembering is (A stimulant) overstimulating, like a drug. There’s no telling my body ‘That’s enough’. The rabbit hole opens, and I tunnel from sensation to sensation until I’m on the outside of the ride, wondering if I’m further along or farther behind. Once started, the memory plays out to the end—no exceptions.
“Are you following?” The man across the table asked, his tone as polished as his mohair three-piece suit. He leaned back with indifference. Silver hair stopped just at his shoulders, gleaming under dim neon. He motioned for another drink. Briefing always took place at a bar—I assumed it’s a cultural thing. What I really wanted to ask was about his face, or lack thereof.
After waiting the appropriate allotted time to convey comprehension, I nodded.
“It’s fine.” The man with no face said curtly. “Personally, I don’t expect much out of you. Mediocre dreamers are a dime a penny.” He raised his index finer and produced a blue flame—violent, sharp. “But I trust the professor with my life—I’ll entertain this.” He blew smoke like a glowering fox.
All I kept thinking was how cooly his suede gloves matched leather trench over his suit. Is a trench standard uniform? Cross my fingers.
He was Orphan’s top operative. They call him the Kurosawa of memories. Personal skills were Tarantino, at best. Nevertheless, the personification of reputation. If I was going to make my move, there was no better mouth to hear these words from. Was this possible? My mind desperately clenched to the information. The only question I had was: how could he smoke with no face?
“Any questions?”
I involuntarily squinted.
He sighed. “Related to the work.”
I meekly shook my head. The coffee was lukewarm, but I took a long sip anyway, hiding behind the cup.
“At least you seem like you don’t take anything personally.” He nodded to himself, ashes, threw back his drink, then ordered another. I had a feeling he had already forgotten I was here.
“Not exactly talented. I wouldn’t call you hopeless. Your movements are unorthodox, but you never hesitated. That’s good. That’ll keep you alive.” That was the closest thing to positive reinforcement I ever heard from the man with no face. He held a glowing ball in his hand. The light cast our shadows—the man with no face, mine, and the dead man’s—across the warehouse, exaggerating the spaciousness. The body flayed against the ground faded like steam, leaving nothing behind. “Any questions?” he asked again, without seeming to acknowledge me.
I wouldn’t know where to begin, and I’m not sure any of them would make sense, so I kept them to myself.
I waited. A silence filled the room so thick I began to imagine I couldn’t breathe. Anxiety crept through my blood. I closed my eyes, and the hue of darkness changed with my bodily pulses. Some darkness obstructs the view of the world, others hide things from the self. This felt playful and mocking. I gasped for air and felt a flush of embarrassment chest. The man with no face paid no mind, keeping focused on the empty ground.
Outside felt like a wide-open field despite the obstructions. Machines echoed from every direction. I couldn’t guess what else they could possibly build on this crowded colony. Cool rain fell from the artificial magenta sky—feeling realer than anything down here. I felt the raindrops split me in two, leaving one me out here, and the other flayed on the warehouse floor.
At least, that’s how I wanted to feel. I was summoning guilt that wasn’t there. It would be a lie to say I wasn’t exhilarated. A fire coursed through my veins; the air hot in my nose. I imagined the sword in my hand vanishing, and it did. I didn’t realize I hadn’t realized I was still holding it in open day like that. My palm tingled in a cold sweat—it was remembering the weight of the blade. As if were reminding me that my existence here was as fragile as the edge I walked on. The thrill of the task itself enticed me, yet I felt no attachment to the result—was I emptier than before?
The man with no face silently lit a cigarette, like he had all the time in the world. The flame cast a shadow on his featureless head, producing the only warmth in the vicinity. I watched the magenta sky fall.
“Do they always speak like that?” My voice sounded unnatural, far away.
A blue smoke floated from his mouth like a lost thought.
The silence grew heavier than the humidity.
“When they died, or whatever…it sounded real—like real pain. Something you can’t make up.”
I held my hand out, soaking the mist. These memories—they’re based on real people, right? What about the real body?”
“There are no morals in art,” he replied after a beat, a hint of something deeper flickering in his unseen eyes. “You could call it subjective, but that never satisfies anyone. Regardless, that wasn’t a dead body.” He took a long drag, the glow of the cigarette revealing a faint smirk, as if he found it amusing.
Just another memory.
I felt my palm throb as the magenta water dripped. My breathing slowed the rhythm of the rain. Thump-thump.
“Are you wondering what happened if you would see the face of someone you know?”
Whose memory could possibly shake me?
He turned his head slightly. Though he had no eyes, somehow, the emptiness of his face burned with strange intensity—his lack of features a depthless scrutiny. “A recorder collects memories. Orphan needs results,” he continued, turning to the spot where the memory had been—now just a patch of darkness. “You’re not paid to think.”
He objectively was not the soothing type.
The evening air grew icy.
I had too much on my own mind.
“Let’s report back. The Professor handles questions of morality.”
“I figured you’d come charging headfirst. I did advocate it, but perhaps I should have been clearer about what I meant by using your headfirst.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. Physically, I had the rug swept under my feet. My body collapsed before my mind relayed the message. Gravity held me down in chains, even my breaths felt heavier than the last—suffocating, crushing.
“Glad to see the seeds took root,” he chuckled, dry and unnatural.
This was the professor’s office, that much I could tell—yet something felt off. I came for a routine report— the same routine, the same way. Yet, everything was different. The room was colder than usual, and the professor was a precise man.
Lifeless eyes looked down on me—two blackholes, baring their weight over all the miniscule things that happened to exist. Denial’s fast, but rationality is never too far behind. There was no use in pretending it was someone else. Son of a-
“Casualties, am I right?” The man with no face toyed with a cigar, its red band identical to the professor’s. An orange flame flickered under his face, accentuating his features like a tiny campfire—it felt like the beginning of some ghost story. Rumor around Orphan was that anyone who saw his real face didn’t live to talk about it.
“This war is bigger than you can imagine. We’re simply pawns. The professor’s no exception. No one’s special, especially those who think they are.” The bastard walked behind the desk and settled in. “I warned you when we met that blood can’t wash blood. But unlike you—I’m pressed on time. So, don’t hurt yourself thinking too much about it.”
Did he defect? The Underground? Perhaps the Organization. I could never read him. Not because he hid his face, but that calculated persona only showed what he scripted. It was Jim Carrey playing Andy Kaufman—an actor, always playing a part. He never seemed to look at anyone, only past them. I had felt that way since the moment I was recruited to Orphan and saw his expressionless face. It was like catching your reflection in a broken mirror, down a dark alley.
“Orphan is too idealistic,” he said, stretching his arms out in a mock crucifix. “Only the old man could have built something as innovative as this, but he was out of touch. It’s time to wake up. It was a nice dream,” he said with a tinge of regret, “but reality follows the same principles as gravity.”
He shot me a transparent glance and sighed. “Insist on being difficult, I presume?”
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Think later, I told myself—relaxing my mind, tensing my legs. “Really running your mouth today, huh.” I exploded from the ground, wings bursting from my back as I swung my arms in a violent arc. I aimed my blade at his silver dome with all my might, adrenaline numbing the pain ripping through my muscles. “What’s the occasion?” Suddenly, I was sinking. Sinking?
He looked up, unimpressed. “Was I insufficient as a teacher? With one finger extended, he halted my blade in midair. It was like punching underwater, resisted by everything, reaching nothing. “Perhaps I should show a bit of remorse. Not every day a student dies. I did just lose my mentor, too.”
His face remained bored.
Seriously? He didn’t even shift his weight. Perfectly still, effortlessly countering every move I made. A flawless stance. What mental fortitude! The difference in skill pissed me off. His betrayal of the professor left me to fill a gap I couldn’t even see the top of. Before I could register anything, a flash of light and a deafening explosion rattled my brain, throwing me backward.
I hacked, the taste of blood like barfing a battery. I took deep breath, vainly, only to suffocate more. My head spun like peaking acid on a rollercoaster—starring into grey matter. The man with no face found a memory where he was absolute. It was too late; the air was being strangled out of my body. He knew I couldn’t imagine myself winning in these odds.
My body dangled off the ground, numbness creeping into my left eye.
“Of course,” he mused; his tone clinical. “Optimal to follow the line of sight while remaining close to the temporal lobe. Your memory recording device is essentially a replica of the professor’s. Why did he choose you?” He spoke like a man lecturing a dog on human reasoning. “Beyond my comprehension, clearly beyond yours.”
The blood loss distorted my senses, but I was imagining him breaking character—laughing, cackling like a flock of ugly crows.
“There’s nothing here!” he screamed, his voice echoing in my skull.
Darkness swallowed me. I floated, weightless, in a black ocean, blending into nothing.
I watched the rosy moon on my back, quietly observing the sleepy universe, as the wave around me clattered against one another like shattered glass. There was someone, or something, swimming with me before. I felt the warmth linger in the ripples, echoing away. Before that, I had been running up a white spiraling staircase, panting on cold stone steps in the dark. I tripped. Lightyears whirled.
"Where is your destination?" The question floated up, a distant memory, from a voice I could no longer place. Good question. I had no answer. Anything new I touched would naturally, inevitably crumble in my hands and fade in the wind. That’s the science of this world. Each time something broke, it took little atoms of myself along with it.
I wanted to believe I was fighting for something other than myself. I wanted the memories to become a part of me, to give weight to me, even if I would never admit that—not to anyone, especially not to myself. If anymore stripped away, I would be left alone—as myself. I lingered too long. She would have seen the cracks that would spread like veins across a shattered mirror. But who was she to me…or I to her…or either of us to ourselves?
“Anyone who died was going to die anyway,” I told myself, the words tasting salty in my mouth. Even great people like the Professor—who touted free will— were no exception. Was it his choice, or was it his fate? What was mine? They were all destined for the same end.
I desperately rejected that fear before it could touch me.
Yet, a gnawing doubt—something I couldn’t quiet—echoed in the back of my mind.
If I tried again, would I reach the top of the staircase?
I knew that getting up would feel like falling, the kind of falling you can’t ever come back from.
I wanted… I wanted… something. Something that kept slipping through my fingers, bleeding me dry. Was this the ocean or was it me?
“It’s not impossible.” The professor said absentmindedly, tweaking a recording device like a pianist coaxing secrets from ivory keys. He wore the usual, generic mad scientist outfit, always stainless. That cute manager of his is the true backbone of this operation—I should give her a call… “Son, to begin again, you must step back… clear the canvas completely. Essentially a mental blackhole would form, indeed, a ticklish rearranging.” He let out a guffaw. The white whiskers shaking like snow. The bags under his eyes gave him an earnest foundation. “Memories would still exist, but we would have no idea where they would go and what form they would be in after. Everything is energy. That’s the principle behind us being able to record memories. reading and moving energy. I could see a practical use. All we have is an intention. Interpretations are like karma. Yes, son, a memory” he whispered, as if sharing a secret with an old friend, ““is both powerful and fragile, indeed, like a butterfly’s wings caught in a storm. Handled carelessly, and you risk breaking something precious… something that can never be put back together. Anything you can imagine collapse, sure has, as it sure would again. It’s in that chaos where real creativity is born.”
I feel I’m having a breakdown. “Or breakthrough?” I grinned, tasting the metallic drip of blood in my mouth. My voice came out raw, unfamiliar, like a stranger's.
The confidence in his eyes flickered, dulled by a shade. "Interesting," he murmured.
I lunged forward, between his hesitation. Using his own arm to block his sight, I plunged my imaginary blade under my coat, through my shoulder, aiming for the recording device in his other hand. The impact jolted through my body, and I felt the familiar sensation of control returning—a hard reset. The world around us shifted violently. Suddenly, I was floating, not in the ocean, but in the air—weightless, untethered. The man with no face hovered beside me.
"You’ll lose everything," he warned, his tone less certain now. "You are aware?"
A blinding light expanded, warping everything in its path, devouring walls, crushing furniture, swallowing sounds. The room spiraled into itself like water down a drain. I didn’t have time to think about what lay beyond these walls, how far the blast would spread. Nothing flashed before my eyes. No regrets. No epiphanies. Just… nothing.
Oh well.
It doesn’t have to be a “where,” but rather a “who.” The question followed at me as I
drifted. I was the yellow spacesuit in “2001,” spinning, smaller, steadily out of reach.
The passage of time was unclear. A familiar emptiness returned—like a dull ache, a bleak stain, an unwanted child in a crowded room. But it was all around me, swallowing every sound, every thought. An endless sea of nothing. It took an embarrassing amount of time to pinpoint the numbness—too many unsequenced memories stimulating at once, like drunks trying to have a civil discussion.
How awkward, I thought.
I peeked around, recognizing nothing. I should speak—break the silence, say something. Anything. It doesn’t have to be perfect, right? I’m not a morning person and the sun beamed so close today I feel more melted than usual. Would that be a good topic? That strange soap dispenser in the bathroom shaped like an antique lamp. The diner is mid-west, but the facilities are nouveau. Was that a normal conversation starter? I doubted it.
I sighed and blurted to the closest voice—you’ll stay on that shore forever? I saw you, amongst the millions of other eyes—watching me. No answer, just smoke floating over a faded grimace. Guess we weren’t paid to think. And I should have picked a spot with a bar—I said sipping my surprisingly tasty coffee. I left him with the tab and headed for the stairs.
I focused on honing one sensation—sound. My ears twitched at the faint note of music. I hummed along in my mind, but it was chaotic, disjointed, like a child babbling nonsense. But then A voice—soft, girlish—began to form, almost recognizable. Whose voice, was it? Before I could place it, words started rolling in, like credits at the end of a movie.
“When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know. You will know.”
III.
I was mesmerized by her, illuminated in neon brilliance, oblivious to everything else.
A crackling voice came through the speaker: "Sir and Madame."
She glanced at me, lost in thought. “What’s today?”
I shrugged.
She pursed her lips, then studied me, her eyes searching for understanding.
(I keep looking for a place to fit
Where I can speak my mind
I’ve been trying hard to find the people
That I won’t leave behind.)
The door buzzed and clicked open to reveal a bouncer in a sharp black suit, his bald head glinting behind dark sunglasses. Vin Diesel moonlighting as a bouncer, guarding the KTV in this nameless alley.
The interior looked surprisingly high-end—or at least, less dingy than I imagined. The woman seemed to be regular. She and receptionist girl made small talk. A laugh track queued. Colloquial currency exchanged. We took the elevator up to room 424.
“Press the button if you need anything,” Mr. Diesel said before closing the door behind us.
On the table, scotch on the rocks and a fruity concoction waited. The ceiling pulsed with drunken hues, while glitter floated lazily in the air. A generic love song video played on the main screen: lonely woman strolling the beach, her longing gazes and even longer sighs blurred in a nauseating dance of desire.
In the brief walk from the door to the couch, she transformed. Like Sailor Moon, adopting a new person, she could slip into another skin—another version of herself.
Meanwhile, I was stuck in mine, tangled in memories that weren’t even my own.
Her hair longer and darkened, her gaze deepened; both violet and sultry. A second color hid underneath—hinting for me to figure that out later. Her sheer jacket cropped to the sleeves wrapped over a sleeveless cocktail dress—hanging from her breast and stopped mid-thigh, accented with a loose, hanging frill. A new matching handbag, glossy and embossed with a designer letter, hung on her side. She sat, glancing at her descending reflection. The reflection approved.
I traced her figure as she crossed her legs, the light catching the perfect toned of her thigh. She tossed her head back, batting artificial eyelashes in familiar morse. Stars floated around her head. She picked up a microphone, and for a moment, the sound in the room paused.
“You came back to find what you lost. Isn’t that, right?”
“I could die,” I muttered, avoiding the mic.
“Then make it your swan song. I hope you’ve been practicing.”
I trembled slightly, but her insistence was unyielding. Meanwhile, the woman on the screen stared wistfully into the distance.
“On an assignment on this moody planet,” I began, lifting my glass to watch the colors trace the ice. “Caught by the weather, I ended up in a bar with some locals. They insisted it would be rude if I didn’t sing. You ever seen Lost in Translation?”
She gasped in mock surprise, her mouth open. “Roxy Music?”
“A girl and her friends promised they’d back me up.” I stared into the melting ice. “In the film the song felt so intimate and warm. You ever seen a crowd of drunk people turn into an AA meeting?”
“She must have been cute,” she teased.
“I discovered the sound personifying awkwardness. So, there was that, at least.”
We recreated the sound—our voices clashing and harmonizing. She asked if I ever finished the song. I took a large sip—sighing. “Felt like a weird obligation to.”
A few songs later, it was almost painless—sometimes intimate, between words that weren’t our own, uttered by her or myself, perhaps a bit true. Hot flushes of embarrassment predicably cooled, vanishing with the passing seconds. I felt the relief of stepping off a roller coaster, heart still racing. Yet, a hollowness lingered in it all. I entertained the urge to run before the room crumbled around us.
She motioned with her hand, and the hologram menu appeared. ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ glowed in the air, Lauryn Hill's version. Before that was Utada Hikaru’s ‘Simple and Clean,’ and next would-be Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Dreams. She’d curated a whole mood, a living mixtape. She was a whole mood— and then some.
The clock hands danced to the music. Time took the night off. Up and down tossed descriptions like an Olsen Twins plot. Any obligations I had stood on the outside of the haze, along with my best efforts. I began collecting others’ memories recently—or maybe it was ages ago. Now, my mind was crowded repository of stories, emotions, and losses beyond imagination. It was like an endless buffet of films, music, and books blending into my consciousness. Where did I end, and the memories begin? Time refused to confirm—not tonight.
I closed my eyes to the serenade, the room spinning in a drunk reverie. I felt like a river without a source, flowing without direction. How much father can I go before I trickle into nothing? The clock is ticking, and I never had much direction. Yet here on this planet, in this room, it’s like the collapsing prophecy couldn’t reach me. We could sing all our troubles away. I could flow on until nothing was left—until something altered the stream. A brush back to the present, a reminder.
“It’s never enough, is it?” She said, returning out of breath.
The woman’s sweat smelled sweet, velvety, like an orchid. I fought to keep a stoic face. Was she right? I wondered.
“Didn’t know you had that in you.”
“We could fill an ocean with what you didn’t notice.” Her reflection ran a hand through her hair, then turned back to me. She touched my cheek, just under my left eye. Her fingerers were soft.
I winced. The artificial eye was like a contact lens.
“The premise is good, but it drags,” I said, trying to deflect. “Plot gets convoluted.”
“Shame,” She purred, “I prefer things sweet and simple. Like a good rom-com.”
Her eyelashes, from this angle, reminded me of a doll a girl from the home used to play with. The doll’s eyes would close when laid down, but people aren’t that simple. We can live with our eyes wide open and remain asleep. I wondered where home was. I hadn’t wondered in a long time. Reading so many memories, I’d forgotten where home was—outside of interpretations. Maybe it was somewhere far. Or maybe it was someone. I was a blur in a blip, becoming more obscure with each new memory I absorbed, how could I be sure what was mine? Either way, something’s that didn’t quit belong together made attempt to coexist inside my mind.
“Buddy comedies aren’t any good?”
Nope—She shook her head, mocking disapproval. Too bitter, her finger said, poking my face. And too complicated, her raised eyebrows suggested. She turned away in a taciturn manner.
Then, suddenly, she deflated against me dramatically, her breath alive like late summer air. "You think singing the words makes them true?" She asked no one in particular—more to herself than to me.
Our drinks remained full, magically cold. The woman on the screen had moved to a new location—somewhere exotic and unnamed. My mind felt bloated. I couldn’t grasp another thought. Part of me, a good amount, fought the primal urge to clear it all, flip the preverbal table.
“Well, there you go again.” She whispered.
“Where?”
“Where, indeed.”
My heart itched. She looked up, gleaming with an empathy I knew of only in theory. Her expression’s a memory. I could never find the words for what I already knew.
“I think my eyes followed my feet,” I confessed. “One stuck in the past, one stepping into the future. This is the middle of nowhere. But I think—I get it now. Maybe.”
My voice sounded distant, as if it were not my own.
The woman silently sipped her drink. “Finding yourself isn’t tied society or ideology. No here is finding anything. They lost who they were and accepted it. A planet full of lingering memories and feelings. Spinning for the sake of spinning. It’s simple— and kinda nice –if you don’t think about it. Think too much and you’ll miss everything.” She stared into the screen, watching the lyrics scroll by.
I swirled my glass, watching the ice clank around. “I’ve never too much of a thinker.”
“Are you scared of what you’ll find?” she asked, turning fully toward me.
Terrified. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy. Lighting in a storm. Chills rattled my bones. But I wouldn’t say that here. Karaoke’s a place for fun. “I’m— not into semantics,” I said tracing the woman’s soft fingers with my own.
Would you be able to let it go?
I have nothing left to let go of.
Must be nice.
I looked up, her reflection mingling with mine... Must be.
The woman in the music video peered into a crossroad, running through the night with one glass slipper in hand. The clock beat without mercy. She had no choice but to keep running, chasing the horizon.
“Sometimes, I wish I did,” I whispered.
I pulled her close—closer than anyone ever has been, at least in long time. The warmth melted the edges of my doubt. Her breath on my neck, the soft scent of strawberries, it felt... How could I differentiate reality from a memory? I tasted a moist pain I in my mouth that I would think back on later in life with elation when I needed soothing. The phone on the wall rang, it eventually stopped, getting the message. The countdown started. Just like in the morning, I tell myself two more minutes, prying myself from the lull. Two more, with this new yet familiar sensation. Forming gradually, leaving suddenly. I felt the invisible source welling up inside, pushing out all my time. I had to let go of something; it was only fair. Yes, fair.
The lady in the music video smiled: a real smile, a long relief, a well-deserved love. She walked into the sunset, locking arms with her faceless lover. Their footprints melted into the current.
A pale moon took over the screen. Soon, it would get cold, but not on the outside.
It was a warm morning. The early crowd remained blanketed in a stillness, a hush, quietly ruminating from lucidness. Their polished mask were well-made, suited for civility.
The morning light burned away the city’s neon make-up, showing a world caught between decay and daydreams. A few dead stars faintly glittered, providing relief, like remnants of something we almost forgot to miss.
I could feel it. Watch enough films and you know when things are wrapping up. The path we were walking lead off the set—to the edge of nothing. The fourth wall had crumbled, then the third, the second, and the first—each disintegrating while we slept. I was rejecting this world, or it was rejecting me. Usually the latter.
We moved past the herd of people effortlessly, as if they were ghosts—dematerializing and transparent. I started clinging to familiar signs and landmarks like I was losing an old friend I'd never see again.
I took a shallow breath.
“Oh, it over?” she said nonchalantly, her words floating dully across the city and into the emerald sky.
Not if I have something to say about it. These things always sounded cool in my head, like a line I might’ve rehearsed a hundred times but never actually say out loud. So damned cool. And cliché. I could never bring myself to conform to the moment. Maybe I was cursed—or destined, to swim against the current of nostalgia. All I could do was watch from birds-eye view later, in remise.
If I spoke, it felt like it would speed up the deflation. I swallowed hard.
We crossed the street and stood in front of the station, it felt impossibly large. People passed by like decorations of the world. The color of everything peeled away, like cheap paint.
I’ll be back. Yes. I mean it. Of course. This isn’t a joke. I’m not laughing, at least not yet. These words tattered across the lonely edge of the universe as I regained consciousness, my body sunken into a muddy crevasse along the shore. The ball in the sky—sun or moon? I couldn’t tell. Hot or cool, it didn’t matter against my skin. Beautiful, alone, my only companion. The coastline stretched too forever. I reached into my pockets instinctive and found a letter, smeared with saltwater.
I always thought about being here but could never imagine it. Like dying. Perhaps, no, I’m sure of it—I feared wouldn’t live up to the expectation.
I walked along the golden horizon, eyes blinded, lungs burning. The way I got here? Gone, obliterated. Oh well. Ahead, the new world would stretch on. Behind me I found the old, decaying one. Thank karma for fascination—keeping me moving, from freezing in place.
The cats eyed me, their riddles sounding intergalactic. I began writing, not out of necessity, simply for the act—words like breaths, filling any space that might trace back to a beginning.
Some of my words washed ashore, carried by the tide of a forgotten distance. Before I even dried, I felt strangely calm. I’m just visiting, I repeated like a child to myself, anyone, everyone. Lingering some places longer than others. She humored me, I laughed—a real laugh, like exhaling a wind soured in my gut for too long.
Eventually, through serendipity, I realized the horizon wasn’t a means to escape. It was an entrance. I cascaded between worlds.
I was never much of a thinker.
The woman’s fingers clutched my back, her whisper indecipherable, the words tickling. I nodded—did I understand? Maybe. I think. She might have said anything I imagined. My body felt like a ballon without a hand. More people were around than I noticed before, their voices a jumble of gibberish, their laughter sharp, their movements deliberate. I kept telling myself not to look back. I begged myself. The pink cloud floated though the crowded station, disappearing without turning back. I spat out unused words onto the pavement, careless of who might hear. My vision strained; the channel tuned to static.
This is all a dream, so try to get some sleep, okay?
The sky was a deep blur. Soon it would collapse, and this would all be over. The ocean reclaiming all its raindrops. I shook my head, trying to shake away excess thoughts—enough musings. My stomach twisted in knots—hunger or fear? I couldn’t tell. I bet on hunger. I dug into my pockets: empty. The photo, my recorder, my wallet—even the crushed pastry—gone. I sighed, I bargained.
Then I made a mad dash into the station. Eyes followed me. Someone screamed. I hit the platform just as the train began to pull away. She was there, looking out the window, laughing along with everyone else on the train. I couldn’t see their faces. The path behind me was gone, crumbled to dust. The crowd buzzed like cicadas. I slipped, tumbled, felt myself hitting nothing before realizing I was tangled in a velvet curtain. I pulled back, revealing an impossible violet.
I woke up in a different bed, in a different world. The clock on the wall ticked steadily. The line between worlds vanished like smoke, leaving a bitter fragrance. I lay in stillness, closed my eyes, trying my damndest to fall again into perpetuity, morose by the expanding distances between here and there.
Who could sleep in all the damn silence and comfort, I thought.
When I stood, my reflection caught me from the window, alive, observing the room. Its eyes drifted over the scattered strands of hair—too many colors to count, like remnants of someone who had long since slipped away. Outside, the river murmured with an odd familiarity, as though it knew the things I had forgotten. It just kept going.
But now that I have my memories back, I don’t seem to have the time anymore.
I woke up in a different bed, in a different world. The clock on the wall ticked steadily. The line between worlds vanished like smoke, caught in the passing seconds. I lay in stillness, closed my eyes, trying my damndest to fall again into perpetuity, morose by the expanding distances between here and there.
Whose memory was that?
I shook off the thought, dressed quickly. In the window, my reflection seemed to be noting the fine strands of hair scattered across the room—colors of someone who had been and gone. We listened to river outside murmur with odd familiarity, as though it knew things I had forgotten. It just kept going.