Have you ever wondered what it would be like if all of your dreams were to come true? Happy dreams, sad dreams, scary dreams—no matter what it is, would you be satisfied if the impossible were to be possible?

Or would you be scared of the extraordinary and instead prefer the normality of this mundane world?

I had questioned myself about these questions many times, no matter how trivial they seemed to everyone else. Some of you would even ask, "Why would I concern myself with such questions?". Of course, you're free to answer these questions of your free will. However, sometimes these questions need to be thought of when certain situations come your way.

To let fantasy turn into reality or to let reality turn into fantasy. I wonder what kind of path people prefer to take in this world.

In my case, I still don't know my answer to these questions. But today, I will surely find that answer for myself for the last time.

I once recalled the times when I was young. I have almost lost count of the years that have slipped by since then, but some memories remain etched in the recesses of my mind. Among them, a conversation stood out in the fog of forgotten moments. It was a conversation with a friend.

I was talking to that friend in high school at the time. The only sounds in the classroom were the ticking of a clock and our acrimonious yells directed at one another. There was nobody else there. We weren't arguing for any reason that I could recall, but I did know that I was to blame.

All of his words—well, not exactly all of them—I remembered. Not exactly as it was spoken then; I couldn't remember everything, but there was one particular sentence that stuck in my head. I no longer remembered his name or even his face, but his words remained like an echo in my mind, almost wanting to become permanently ingrained in my memory.

He stated, "Stop living in your fantasies and turn your dreams into reality." I thought back to those remarks and had a bad taste in my mouth. After hearing anything like that, how should someone feel? Should they be pleased and inspired, or be disappointed? Humans ought to respond in such a way.

He told me that I should make my own dreams and live in the real world. Those words alone are enough to send someone into a state of comfort. However, strangely, I had an overall sense of hopefulness and despondency.

But since I knew him, I took his advice and did what he said. To be honest, I'm glad I did because it laid the groundwork for who I am now—though not quite as much as I had hoped. Because of my erroneous perception of reality, I am now nothing more than a human being who wasted his time.

I lost all sense of time as I was engrossed in my thoughts, and before I realized it, evening had arrived.

I sit at my desk, the glow of the laptop screen casting a dim light across the cluttered expanse of my room. Papers lie scattered like fallen leaves, and photographs of happier times stare back at me from every corner. Each image captures a moment of forced joy; my smile is a facade masking the emptiness behind my eyes.

There was an odor in the air, like rotten apples. It might have been in the trash can for a while, but I didn't try to empty it and throw it out. I had grown to get used to the pungent smell of the rotten fruits.

With a heavy sigh, I reached for the familiar yellow bottle, the label worn from countless rotations between my fingers. The pills rattled softly as I shook out my dose, a routine I'd grown accustomed to and a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty.

I swallowed one down, the bitter taste lingering on my tongue, and leaned back in my chair, letting the medicine work its magic on my thoughts. I decided to take a break today. Just a day to live, free from the burden of the expectations of society.

I still wonder how life managed to turn out this way. Initially, I was a successful writer. Talk about my book was spread out around town, and I sure thought I was a prodigy. I held myself in high regard those days.

But as time passed, I couldn't break out of my thoughts and drowned myself in the pits of apathy. I thought I was going to survive and fight, but I lost again in the end. Maybe I wasn't trying hard enough, but at least I tried.

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I was no longer able to hold a pen or even move my fingers over the keyboard's displayed characters. I have hardly written a single letter, and I am already tired. Even if I tried to force myself, my mind wouldn't cooperate with me.

I would prefer if I were to lie down all day and do nothing. The title of a renowned writer is impermanent. I'm nothing but a total nobody rotting inside his cluttered house. I'm so tired.

It has also been a long time since I interacted with a human being. A couple of times, I only interacted with people online, but never once did I step out of the house and utter a word to anyone. I didn't want to be recognized.

But surprisingly, later on, an unknown caller managed to get my number and called me.

Rrrring! Rrrring!

My phone was on my bed, so it took a bit of time for me to stand up and reach towards it. I didn't recognize the number, so I didn't answer it immediately. I waited for the call to die down for several minutes. I thought it could be a person calling the wrong number.

But when I still didn't answer, the caller called again or even more. Since the mystery caller was being somewhat persistent, I chose to answer and give them what they wanted. I tried speaking in a lively tone and said, "Hello?".

The other person on the line said nothing. After a few, maybe five, seconds of silence, a smooth-sounding voice called out to me.

"Hello, are you Avel Canosa?" As though they were trying to find me, the man on the other end of the line called out my name. I was on the verge of pressing the end button with my thumb, but now is my chance to engage in conversation with someone.

"Yes, I am. Why?"

"Oh, oh, sweet! I finally found you. Heh, my name is Apate de los Reyes. I'm actually a big fan of your work."

I went silent for a moment. Being told that someone is a huge fan of their writing would thrill any writer. This guy must be serious because, in most cases, no one would be willing to say that out loud. It made my heart flutter for a bit.

However, there was something holding me back from appreciating this person's admiration. For example, I question how this person got a hold of my personal phone number. The only information I can recall adding to all of my developed websites is my business email address and phone number. I kept my private phone number hidden from the public.

If I did inadvertently disclose my phone number publicly, it was probably years ago, when I was just getting started as a writer.

"Thank you, but how did you get this number?" I asked the person I was speaking with. I had to ask since I couldn't let a question go unanswered.

My question caught the mysterious caller off-guard. There was a moment of silence on the line before he continued. "Oh, yeah. I didn't mean to catch you like that. I got your number from a friend," he replied.

"A friend?"

"Yes. I believe you gave him his phone number during a fan meet-up back in 2019."

"I don't quite remember, but alright. I would like to know why you are calling me right now."

"Yeah, right, sorry." I heard some objects being dropped from the other side, along with the sound of papers rustling. I even heard a sudden crashing noise and a subtle grunt of pain afterward.

Apate hesitated for a moment before continuing, "I know you might be wondering why I'm reaching out to you. Well, the thing is, I stumbled upon your work a while back, and it left quite an impression on me. I was deeply moved by the depth and unadulterated emotion in your writing."

I listened intently, feeling a flicker of warmth in his words. Hearing someone enjoy my writing made me remember how dedicated I used to be to writing, despite what I am going through now.

Apate cleared his throat again before continuing, "Anyway, I would be honored if you could join us for an event at an art museum next week. Your perspective as a writer could add a unique dimension to the event. Plus, I believe it would be a great opportunity for you to reconnect with the creative community."

I paused, caught off guard by the invitation. "Why me? I'm a writer," I responded, my voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. It had been so long since I actively participated in any creative endeavors that I questioned why someone would seek me out for such an event.

Apate chuckled softly on the other end of the line. "Precisely because you're a writer," he replied. "Your perspective is valuable, Avel. Sometimes, stepping outside of our comfort zones can lead to unexpected inspiration. Plus, I have a feeling you could use a change of scenery."

His words struck a chord within me, but I was still conflicted. A part of me yearned for the opportunity to reconnect with the outside world. The idea of being recognized for my writing again and engaging with a community that shared my passion for creativity stirred a long-dormant ember of excitement within me.

However, another part of me hesitated, held back by the fear of stepping out and facing the reality that had become so stiflingly familiar. What if I couldn't live up to the expectations? What if I disappointed those who believed in me?

Lost in my thoughts, I absentmindedly picked up a book next to my laptop. The familiar cover, worn from years of use, brought back memories of late-night study sessions and of aspirations and dreams that had once burned brightly within me. As I flipped through its pages, my gaze fell upon highlighted passages and scribbled notes, a testament to the diligence and determination I had once possessed.

But even with the wave of nostalgia that passed over me, I was unable to get rid of the disappointment that had crept into my heart. The burden of my own uncertainties and fears made the aspirations I had once pursued appear far-off and unreachable.

Closing the book with a sigh, I turned my attention back to the phone call and to the invitation that lay before me like a glimmer of hope in the darkness. Perhaps this was my chance to break free from the shackles of my own making and to rediscover the passion and purpose that had once driven me forward.

With a hesitant yet determined sigh, I finally spoke up, "Alright, Apate. I'll be there for your art museum event."

Apate's response was immediate, his voice filled with genuine enthusiasm: "That's fantastic, Avel! I'm happy to hear that. I'll send you all the details about the event, including the address and schedule. Looking forward to seeing you there!"

As I ended the call, a sense of anticipation bubbled within me, mingling with a faint glimmer of hope that had long lay dormant within my heart. I'm scared, but perhaps this will be the first step in reclaiming the life I once dreamed of.

I closed the lid of my laptop, casting aside the clutter of papers and memories that had accumulated over the years. Tomorrow was a new day, a chance to embrace the unknown and rediscover the joy of creation that had eluded me for so long.

As I drifted off to sleep that night, visions of possibilities danced through my mind, each one more tantalizing than the last. And amidst the chaos of my dreams, a single thought echoed with unwavering clarity:

Perhaps, just perhaps, it was time to turn my dreams into reality once more.