Waking Ghosts

The alarm clock screamed. Alan's eyes shot open, his body drenched in cold sweat. The digital display read 3:17 AM—the same time as always. He reached for Emma beside him, but found only twisted sheets.

"Emma?" he called out, voice hoarse.

Light spilled from beneath the bathroom door. He exhaled. Just using the bathroom. The nightmare felt so real this time—Emma gone, their children never born, a life utterly different from this one they'd built together. A sterile apartment instead of their warm suburban home. Solitude instead of family chaos.

The bathroom door opened. Emma emerged, her silhouette backlit by harsh fluorescent light.

"You're up," she said flatly. "Same dream?"

"Sorry if I woke you."

Emma sat beside him, placed a cool palm against his cheek. "Tell me."

"I was alone. Living in the city. Different job. You were... someone else." He hesitated. "We weren't together."

"Because I chose career over family?" Her voice held an edge he couldn't quite place.

Alan frowned. "How did you know?"

"You've said it before." She sighed, standing. "Try to get some sleep. The kids have soccer in the morning."

After she left, Alan stared at the ceiling fan rotating lazily above. Something felt off, but he couldn't place it. Like trying to recall a word that danced at the edge of memory.

He closed his eyes, and fell.

"Alan? Alan!"

Someone was shaking him. A woman's voice, familiar yet wrong. He opened his eyes to blinding fluorescent light and the antiseptic smell of a hospital.

Dr. Naomi Chen peered down at him, her dark eyes narrowed with concern behind fashionable glasses. "You zoned out again. Third time this week."

Alan blinked, disoriented. The sterile walls of her office came into focus. The dream had felt so vivid—Emma, their children, the house with the white picket fence and the oak tree in the backyard.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Where were we?"

"We were discussing your latest episode. The suburban dream?"

"Right." Alan loosened his tie, suddenly feeling constricted. "It's getting more elaborate. I can smell the pancakes Emma makes on Sundays. I can feel the weight of my son when I carry him to bed."

"But Emma isn't your wife in reality," Dr. Chen said gently.

"No." The word tasted bitter. "In reality, we never made it past the third date."

"And you don't have children."

"No children," Alan echoed.

Dr. Chen set aside her tablet. "Your brain is creating an alternate reality, Alan. A life where you made different choices. Where you prioritized family over career."

"It feels real."

"That's the problem." She leaned forward. "Your mind can't distinguish between the dream world and reality anymore. That's why you're here."

Alan nodded mechanically. This was his reality—successful architect, Manhattan apartment, solitary lifestyle. The other life was just a fantasy his mind had constructed.

"I've increased your medication dosage," Dr. Chen said, handing him a prescription. "And I want you to try something new. When you feel yourself slipping, focus on something concrete from this world. Your watch, perhaps?"

Alan glanced down at his wrist. The Swiss timepiece had been a gift to himself when he made partner.

"Focus on the watch," he repeated. "And it'll anchor me here?"

"That's the idea."

Outside, the late September air carried a hint of coming autumn. Alan checked his watch—4:45 PM. His phone buzzed. A text from Emma.

Still thinking about our conversation. Coffee tomorrow?

Alan stared at the message. They'd run into each other last week at a gallery opening—first time in seven years. She was a curator now, successful in her own right. Single, focused on her career. Just like him.

Sure. 2pm at Riverside?

He pocketed the phone, wondering if seeing her was wise. The headache returned, sharper now. Alan pressed his fingers against his temple, waiting for it to pass. When he opened his eyes, his surroundings had changed.

"Daddy! Watch me!"

Emma touched his arm. "You okay? You looked far away for a second."

They sat on a park bench, watching their daughter Sophie attempt a cartwheel on the grass. Their son Jack was scaling the jungle gym nearby.

"I'm fine," Alan lied, gripping the bench to steady himself. The transition had never been this abrupt before.

"You don't look fine." Emma's brow furrowed with concern. "Is it work?"

Alan nodded, grateful for the excuse. "Just deadline stress."

"You should talk to Dr. Whitaker about it at your appointment tomorrow," Emma suggested. "These episodes are getting more frequent."

"Episodes?"

Emma gave him a strange look. "The fugue states? Where you zone out and forget where you are? That's why you're seeing Dr. Whitaker, remember?"

The parallels were unsettling. In both worlds, he was seeking psychiatric help. In both worlds, something was wrong with his mind.

Sophie ran over, breathless with excitement. "Did you see, Daddy? I almost did a full cartwheel!"

Alan scooped her up, inhaling the scent of grass and strawberry shampoo. She felt solid in his arms. Real. "Amazing, sweetheart. Soon you'll be teaching me."

Sophie giggled, then wriggled free to rejoin her brother. Alan watched her go, struck by a sudden, terrible thought: What if this world—his family, his children—was the illusion?

"Hey." Emma squeezed his hand. "Come back to us."

Alan squeezed back, forcing a smile. "I never left."

But he had. And he would again.

The coffee shop was busy when Emma arrived, fifteen minutes late and apologetic.

"Gallery crisis," she explained, unwinding a colorful scarf from her neck. "Artist temperament and all that."

This Emma was sharper around the edges—designer clothes, precise movements, confidence bordering on impatience. Different from the warm, patient mother in his dreams.

"So," she said, settling across from him. "You're having dreams about us being married with kids?"

Alan nearly choked on his coffee. "How—?"

"You mentioned it last week. Said you'd been having vivid dreams." She stirred her cappuccino, watching him. "Sounded fascinating."

"I don't remember telling you that."

Emma shrugged. "You seemed pretty out of it by the end of the night. Too much wine, probably."

"So tell me about dream-us," Emma prompted. "Are we happy? Living in suburban bliss?"

There was something almost mocking in her tone.

"We seem happy, yes. Two kids—Sophie and Jack. I'm still an architect, but at a smaller firm. Less pressure. You..." He hesitated.

"Let me guess. I gave up my career ambitions to raise our perfect children?"

"You work part-time at a local gallery," Alan said defensively. "You chose a different path, that's all."

Emma laughed, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Always the diplomat, Alan." She leaned forward. "But be honest—isn't that what attracted you to me back then? My ambition, my independence? Would you really want a domesticated version of me?"

"It's just a dream," he said finally. "It doesn't mean anything."

"Doesn't it?" Emma tilted her head. "Dreams are the mind's way of processing desires and fears. Maybe you're afraid of ending up alone. Or maybe..." She paused, studying him. "Maybe you regret our choices."

"Our choices? You were the one who—" Alan stopped himself. Ancient history now.

"I was the one who chose my career," Emma finished for him. "And you were the one who gave me an ultimatum."

"That's not how I remember it."

"No?" Emma's gaze was challenging. "How convenient."

Alan's head throbbed. The café lights seemed suddenly too bright, sounds too sharp. He gripped his watch, trying to anchor himself.

"Are you okay?" Emma's voice sounded distant. "Alan?"

The world tilted, and he was falling again.

"Alan? Honey, wake up."

Dream-Emma stood over him, concern etched on her face. Their bedroom was dim, early morning light filtering through the curtains.

"You were shouting in your sleep," she said, sitting beside him. "Another nightmare?"

Alan sat up slowly, disoriented. "I was with you—the other you. We were arguing about the past."

Emma's expression darkened. "The imaginary me who chose career over family?"

"She's not imaginary," Alan insisted. "She's real. That world is real."

"This again?" Emma stood, arms crossed defensively. "Alan, we've been over this. Those are delusions. Dr. Whitaker explained that your mind created this alternate reality as a way to process your anxiety about your career choices."

"What if it's the other way around? What if this is the delusion?"

Emma's eyes welled with tears. "Do you hear yourself? You're saying our children aren't real. Our life together isn't real."

"I don't know what's real anymore, Em."

"I'm real." She grabbed his hand, pressed it against her heart. "This is real. Our family is real. Everything else is just—dreams."

But even as she spoke, Alan noticed something off about the bedroom. The photographs on the dresser—had they always been there? He couldn't recall their faces clearly, these children he supposedly raised.

Dr. Whitaker's office was warm and inviting—comfortable furniture, plants, soft lighting. Nothing like Dr. Chen's sterile, modern space.

"I used to know which was the dream and which was reality," he concluded. "Now, I'm not sure."

Dr. Whitaker nodded thoughtfully. "The mind is remarkably adaptable, Alan. When faced with trauma or difficult emotions, it can create elaborate scenarios—alternative lives where we made different choices."

"But which life is real?"

"Both are real to you," she said carefully. "But only one exists outside your mind."

"And you believe that's this one? With Emma and the kids?"

Dr. Whitaker hesitated. "I believe that's for you to determine."

"That's not an answer."

"No," she agreed. "It's not."

Frustration welled up. "Everyone keeps dancing around this. Emma insists this world is real. Dr. Chen insists the other world is real. Meanwhile, I'm trapped between them!"

Dr. Whitaker leaned forward. "What do you think, Alan? Deep down, which world feels authentic to you?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "In this world, Emma claims we've been together since college. But I remember our breakup vividly. I remember the years alone."

"And in the other world?"

"The details blur. I can't picture my apartment clearly. I can't remember specific projects I've worked on."

Dr. Whitaker made a note. "That's significant."

"But the emotions feel real in both places," Alan continued. "When I'm with dream-Emma and the kids, the love feels genuine. And when I'm in New York, the emptiness feels just as authentic."

"Perhaps that's your answer, then," Dr. Whitaker suggested. "Not which world has more convincing details, but which emotions ring true."

Outside, Alan decided to walk home, hoping the fresh air would clear his head. The neighborhood was charming—tree-lined streets, well-kept houses, children playing. Almost too perfect.

Was that the answer? Was this world too perfect? A fantasy he'd constructed to escape a lonely reality?

Lost in thought, Alan didn't notice the car until its horn blared. He jumped back as it swerved, missing him by inches. His heart pounded as he watched it speed away.

That couldn't be right. In dreams, you wake up before the moment of impact. If this was a dream...

The headache struck with unprecedented force. Alan stumbled, clutching his head as the world dissolved around him.

"Code Blue! Get the crash cart!"

Voices shouted, urgent and professional. Alan tried to open his eyes but couldn't. His body felt distant, disconnected.

"BP's dropping! Where's that epi?"

Someone was performing CPR. Alan could feel the compressions, rhythmic and forceful.

"We've got a pulse! He's back."

Darkness receded slowly. Alan opened his eyes to a hospital room—not Dr. Chen's office, not Dr. Whitaker's. A true emergency room.

A doctor leaned over him. "Mr. Reynolds? Can you hear me? You've had an accident. You were hit by a car. Do you remember anything?"

"I was walking," Alan rasped finally. "Thinking. Didn't see the car."

"You've been unconscious for nearly two days," the doctor continued. "You have a concussion and some internal bruising, but you're incredibly lucky."

Two days. Two days during which he'd lived entire lifetimes in his mind.

After the doctor left, Alan retrieved his phone with shaking hands. Multiple missed calls, most from work. One from Emma.

Are you okay? You never showed for coffee yesterday. Call me?

So the coffee shop hadn't happened yet. It had been part of the dream—or premonition.

Before he could process this, there was a soft knock at the door. Alan looked up.

It was Emma.

Not dream-Emma, not alternate-reality Emma, but the real Emma—the one he'd run into at the gallery last week.

"They said you were finally awake," she said, hovering at the threshold. "I hope it's okay that I came."

"How did you know I was here?"

"The hospital called me. Apparently, I'm still your emergency contact. From seven years ago." A faint smile touched her lips. "You never updated your forms."

An oversight that suddenly seemed meaningful.

"I've been having these dreams," he said suddenly. "About us. A different version of us."

Emma's expression shifted, interest kindling. "What kind of dreams?"

"We stayed together. Moved to the suburbs. Had kids." Alan watched her reaction carefully. "We chose a different path."

"The path you wanted." It wasn't a question.

"The path I thought I wanted," Alan corrected. "I'm not so sure anymore."

Emma sat on the edge of the bed. "That fight we had—the one that ended us. You said I had to choose between my career ambitions and our relationship."

"And you chose your career," Alan finished. "You were right to."

Surprise flickered across her face. "That's... not what I expected you to say."

"The dreams were so vivid that I couldn't tell which world was real. In one, we were married with children. In the other—this one—we'd gone our separate ways. Both felt equally real."

"That sounds terrifying."

"Maybe they were glimpses of a path not taken. A parallel life."

"What was I like? In the other world?"

"Softer. More patient. Completely devoted to our children."

"Sounds boring," Emma said flatly.

Alan laughed, surprising himself. "Maybe a little. She was happy, though. We both were. Or seemed to be."

"But?"

"But something was missing. Some essential spark. I kept feeling like I was playing a role, not living a life."

Emma nodded slowly. "And here? In this reality? What's missing here?"

"Connection," Alan said finally. "Purpose beyond work. The feeling that I'm building something that matters."

"A family, you mean?"

"Not necessarily." Alan reached for her hand, half-expecting her to pull away. She didn't. "Maybe just... a life shared with someone who challenges me. Someone real."

Emma's fingers tightened around his. "I'm real, Alan. Always have been."

"The doctors say I can leave tomorrow," he said. "Any chance you'd like to get that coffee? For real this time."

"I think we can manage that." Emma stood, gathering her bag. "Get some rest. I'll come back in the morning."

After she left, Alan leaned back against the pillows, exhausted but clear-headed. He'd spent weeks caught between two worlds, uncertain which was real. Now he understood—neither was. Both were possibilities, paths that stretched before him, waiting to be chosen.

His phone buzzed with a text from Emma: Fair warning—I'm still ambitious and difficult. But I'm working on the difficult part.

Alan smiled. Real life, with all its messiness and uncertainty, beckoned. For the first time in months, he was fully awake and ready to live it.

Six months later, Alan stood at the window of his new apartment, smaller than his luxury high-rise but with better natural light for Emma's plants.

"Ready?" Emma called from the doorway, keys in hand. "We're going to be late."

"Coming." Alan checked his watch—the old Timex from his dreams. He'd bought it on a whim, a reminder that time was precious.

They were heading to dinner with friends—some his, some hers. A blending of lives in progress. Not perfect, not always smooth, but real. Emma was just as driven as ever, but now they were finding ways to support each other's ambitions rather than compete.

As they headed for the door, Alan noticed something on the side table—a brochure for a fertility clinic. He picked it up, raising an eyebrow at Emma.

"Just exploring options," she said, a hint of defensiveness in her tone. "For the future. Maybe."

"Maybe," Alan agreed, tucking the brochure into her bag. "No rush."

Emma studied him. "Do you still have the dreams? About our other life?"

"Sometimes," Alan admitted. "But they're different now. Less vivid. More like... memories of a story I once read."

"And that's good?"

"It's right." Alan took her hand. "This is where I'm supposed to be."

As they left the apartment, Alan felt a familiar pressure behind his eyes—not painful this time, more like the phantom sensation of wearing glasses after taking them off. For a split second, he thought he saw a flash of another life—suburban streets, children laughing, a different Emma calling his name.

Then it was gone.

Reality hadn't changed, but his perception of it had. The lines between dreams and waking, between possibility and actuality, weren't as fixed as he'd once believed. Reality was what you decided to embrace, what you chose to build with the time given.

"You okay?" Emma asked, noticing his hesitation.

Alan smiled, fully present in this moment, this choice, this life. "Never better."

As they stepped into the elevator, Alan glanced at their reflection in the polished doors—two people creating a shared reality word by word, day by day. The suburban dream would always exist somewhere in the multiverse of possibility, but this—Emma's hand in his, the pleasant uncertainty of a future unwritten—this was the reality he chose.

And for once, he was completely awake.