I killed my dreams

Sleep eluded me as thoughts of many shapes and forms took over my mind. They came and went as they pleased, whispering secrets I tried to bury deep inside. I wore clothes that draped over my shoulders—pants that were too big, shirts that were worn down.

I left my apartment with a feeling that was hard to articulate. My mind guided me toward the little island I could see from my bedroom window. At the heart of the island sat a building that looked eerie and haunted.

It was a chilly night. I could see my breath forming little clouds in the air before dissipating quickly—just like the conversations that once felt profound. They disappeared as if they had never happened, as if I had never opened my chest and offered my heart.

I was born with innocence and excitement for life. Within me, possibilities were endless. I dreamed of doing and becoming amazing things. I couldn’t wait to grow up. My mind was a river that flowed with such vigor it overflowed every once in a while. Everything was bright and colorful in my mind; it played captivating scenarios.

Once I became an adult, a dark cloud started hanging over me. No one could see it but me. A small wind to others felt like a storm to me. Life was confusing and unforgiving. I couldn’t control what I absorbed or what came out. No one saw the hopelessness I carried within.

The flowers I had grown from my childhood dreams started rotting beneath the weight of reality. They became faint stories—memories of something that once shone brighter than the sun. My screams were never loud enough to be heard, and I concealed myself beneath the silence between my words. I was broken from the start. I no longer like the sunshine, and the darkness doesn't like me. I have no time, no place and no one. No one but myself.

From the top of the bridge, I could see the river flowing gently. The island had an unwelcoming feeling. The building in its center stood tall and certain. All of the lights were off, and the fences surrounding it were tall and aggressive. There was a park adjacent to it, and while the park was green and colorful, the building was old, dingy, and dark. It looked like it didn’t belong there. They were polar opposites of each other that somehow got stuck together.

I stared at the building with a sense of familiarity. The park was illuminated with gentle lights. I started walking toward the riverside. Even though there wasn’t a soul to be found, the island felt crowded—as if hundreds of eyes were staring at me, watching my every step.

My steps became more tentative, my stomach tightened. I kept walking until I saw a figure sitting on one of the benches: a man with a hood over his head, staring down at his shoes. He was hunched over, his hands resting on his lap, and there was no sign of movement.

My mind shut out all outside noise, and it felt like time had stopped—as though, on this island, time flowed differently.

Sadness seemed to drip from his skin, as if it was crying out for attention. Just as I was about to pass him, his deep voice started time again.

“Excuse me, miss, do you know what time it is?”

I stopped and looked at him. His hood covered his face, and his posture never changed. He was still staring at his shoes. They looked worn out and dull.

“It is 2 a.m., sir.”

“And what day is it?”

“December 28th, sir.”

He grunted in acknowledgment; his posture remained frozen. The coat he wore was ripped in multiple places, and his hands were cupped together, red from the icy air.

“Are you okay, sir? Do you need help or something? Maybe I could call someone for you,” I asked.

“Thank you, that's not necessary.”

While the contours of his body looked chilling, his voice had a soft timbre that brought a sense of comfort. I was drawn to him and his despair. I didn’t want to leave him behind.

“Is it okay if I sit next to you, sir?”

“Please, go ahead.”

I sat next to him on the bench and looked out at the water. It seemed as though it had started flowing in the opposite direction. From the corner of my eye, I kept studying the man. His face was still hidden from me.

The building stood just behind us, but it didn’t feel as empty as it looked. It was as if it were listening to us, inching closer and closer.

“What is your name?” the man asked.

“Lisa. And yours?”

“David,” he said.

His posture was still frozen like ice. I could see the clouds his breath formed, reminding me he was real.

“I hope I’m not imposing sir, but what are you doing here at this time, sir?”

“You don’t need to call me sir. You can call me David.”

He didn’t move at all, but it felt as though he was inching closer to me.

“I come here sometimes at night when no one else is around.”

Silence settled between us for a minute. I didn’t know how to draw him into conversation. Without warning, David spoke.

“You come here when it gets too loud too, don't you?”

My breath caught in my throat. It felt like he was reading me like a book without looking at me. He kept staring at his shoes as if they had all the answers he was searching for.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The noise,” he said softly.

“The kind no one else can hear. The kind that follows you home. The kind that makes you afraid of your own reflection.”

Even though I had never met this man before, he spoke like he had lived inside my mind, like he was a reflection of me.

The river grew louder, or perhaps the silence between his words made everything sharper. The building behind us felt an inch closer, like it was also intrigued by this man.

“I used to stand where you are standing now,” he continued.

“I used to believe that the world had simply forgotten me.”

“I don't know what you are talking about,” I said.

David tilted his head slightly, like he was adjusting something I had just thought.

“You do,” he said gently.

“You just don't like the way it sounds when you admit it.”

It was like hearing a sentence I had never spoken out loud before. Too aligned.

My fingers started curling in my pocket. I was squeezing them so tight that they were about to pierce through my palm. I took them out and cupped them in front of me as the icy air cut through my skin like knives. For the first time, he lifted his head slightly. He was no longer staring at his shoes but was facing straight toward the river. His hood still hid his face.

“Tell me, Lisa...” he took a long pause,

“when you looked at that building from your window... did you feel like I was staring back?”

I froze. My heart thundered under my ribs. I couldn't utter a single word while David let out a breath that trembled in the cold.

“They watch, you know.”

His breath trembled in the cold, breaking apart into the air like something fragile trying not to exist.

“Who?”

“The ones inside.”

I turned around to look at the building. It looked taller than it did before. I felt like it was towering over me and David.

“The patients?” I asked, forcing a laugh that never truly formed. “David... that place has been abandoned for years.”

Slowly, he lifted one hand and pointed toward the building.

Then...

One light flickered. Once, like a hesitation.

“No,” he whispered, his voice barely discernible. “Not abandoned.”

A wind moved through the island suddenly, sharper than before. It cut across the trees, making them shift and bend as if reacting to something unseen. But the river didn't follow the wind. It kept moving the same way. Backwards. Steady. Unnatural in its calmness.

“I was there,” David said.

His voice no longer sounded distant. It was cracked open. I listened without moving, the sound of my heartbeat filling every gap between us.

“I wasn't dangerous or anything, just... inconvenient.”

Like a label too small for something too large to contain. The building groaned behind us, as though it was displeased with the conversation we were having.

“So I ran.”

“Ran from what?” I asked.

He finally turned to me. Slowly, like even his movement had weight. Beneath the shadow of his hood, I could make out tired eyes. Dark circles carved into them like time had refused to leave his face alone. Like he had been through many nights that never ended properly. He was looking me dead in the eyes; I could hear the sobs and screams that echoed within his hollow chest.

And yet what unsettled me wasn't his appearance. It was the feeling that I already knew it. That I had seen it before, somewhere I couldn't place. He looked at me directly now, and it felt less like being looked at... and more like being remembered.

“When I was in there, I had to kill parts of myself.” He kept staring at me, but I didn't speak.

“Parts of me that I buried deep within with my tears.”

His words felt like they were reaching into my chest and pulling out something that I had spent years trying to bury.

“I thought I was protecting myself...” he continued,

“I thought it would make me happier to live with no expectations. I thought it would make everything quieter.”

The light in the building kept flickering, reminding us that it was there... listening.

“I had to take a knife and stab them. I kept stabbing them until their insistent hearts stopped beating, until they finally stopped uttering the words: ‘I exist, I exist, I exist.’”

A wind stirred between us, colder now. I turned my eyes toward the river that was gurgling softly in front of us. I covered my head with my hood as the coldness of the weather seeped deeper into my soul.

“As if stopping their voice would finally stop mine,” he continued.

The words didn't feel like they belonged only to him. They pressed against something inside me that I didn't want to name.

I stared at the river. Suddenly, it stopped moving, as if the idea of movement had been reconsidered.

“Do you see that?” I whispered.

“Yes,” David said. His answer came too quickly.

“Does it always do that?”

“Only when someone comes here carrying too much of their past.”

A chill spread through me. That sentence settled between us like something heavy being placed down carefully.

“What is this place?”

“A place for people who never really left what broke them.”

I kept looking at the water, trying to steady my breathing. My breath came in shallow and uncertain, like my body no longer trusted the air.

I could feel the building staring at the back of my head, like it had eyes glued to me. When I turned back, I saw it. In the glass of the building’s windows: two people... sitting next to each other, both hunched, both draped in oversized clothes, both wearing hoods. Both with hands resting in their laps, shoulders drawn inward as if they were trying to disappear inside themselves.

At first, I thought it was a distortion. A reflection. The kind your mind invents when it wants to explain something it doesn't understand. The longer I looked, the less it felt like a reflection. Their oversized clothes looked like they didn’t belong to them, as if they had been borrowed from a life that no longer fit.

As I stood up, I said,

“I think I should go,” my voice trembling like it was losing confidence in its own direction.

“Maybe,” David said gently. Not stopping me. Not encouraging me. As if staying and leaving were not opposites here.

“But if you leave now...” his voice started almost like my own,

“...you'll only wake up tomorrow and walk yourself back here again.”

His answer felt like a memory. It didn't push me forward or backward. It just... insisted.

“What do you mean?” I asked. But even as I asked, I felt the question weaken. I felt like I already knew the answer wasn't meant to be explained in words.

“Nothing here moves forward.”

He turned his head toward the river. I looked at the river again; it was still flowing backward. As if forward had never been an option. As if time here refused to commit to becoming anything new.

I looked at David's face. It seemed familiar in a way that hurt, like a thought I had tried to forget.

David didn't move. Neither did I. The figures in the window seemed to mimic us. One was still hunched over, sitting; the other was standing next to him, watching him. My feet were glued to the ground. I couldn’t move or take a step. I sat back down next to David as my body started feeling heavier.

The river kept undoing itself in silence. The building kept watching without eyes. And in the glass of its windows, two versions of the same moment stayed frozen—not waiting for something to happen, but waiting for the moment we would finally recognize that nothing here had ever been happening differently at all.

We had already become the place we were trying too hard to escape. Nothing felt unfamiliar anymore, only remembered. I could no longer remember which side of the window I had been on first. David no longer felt like a separate person. I kept sitting there—my hands on my lap, my hood over my head. Staring at my worn-down shoes.