I woke up to another day, still haunted by the same nightmares—no compliments for a peaceful sleep, just the weight of another restless night.
"Why do I keep having these nightmares?" I muttered to myself, wondering when I'd finally get a break. Just then, Mom walked into the room. I didn't say a word about my dream.
"Hi honey, good morning!" she said cheerfully.
"Good morning, Mom," I replied, forcing a smile, my face clouded with a quiet sadness.
She paused, eyeing me with concern. "Is everything okay, sweetheart?"
"Yeah… I'm fine. As fine as anything," I mumbled, brushing past her.
I threw on a shirt and left the house in a bit of a huff. I needed some peace, so I walked to the church and sat there in silence for a few minutes, letting the calm settle in.
Just as I stepped outside, my phone buzzed. It was a call from Ali—my Muslim friend. I answered right away.
"Hello?" his voice came through.
"Hey, sup dude," I said, trying to sound casual, though I knew I didn't pull it off well.
"That's not like you," he replied, catching on quickly. "Something up?"
Muslims really have a way of sensing things, I thought. But I was glad. If anyone could help me sort this out, it was Ali.
I hesitated for a moment, staring at the sidewalk as if the cracks could offer answers.
"Yeah... I don't know, man," I finally said. "It's just been rough lately. These dreams—they're not just dreams. They feel real. Like something's trying to tell me something."
Ali was quiet for a second, then said softly, "You've been getting them a lot?"
"Every night this week," I admitted. "And it's always the same feeling—darkness, like I'm stuck. Trapped in some room I can't escape. I wake up gasping."
"Listen," he said gently, "my grandmother used to say dreams are echoes. Echoes of the soul trying to heal, or warnings when we ignore what we feel."
I let that sink in. Maybe I was ignoring something. I hadn't told anyone the full truth. Not even myself.
Ali continued, "Come over later, yeah? We'll grab some tea maybe go to the park. Clear your head a bit."
"Yeah," I said, managing a small smile. "Thanks, bro. That actually sounds... good."
As we hung up, I stood on the steps of the church, caught between the comfort of tradition and the pull of something unknown. Maybe this was more than just bad sleep. Maybe it was the beginning of something I had to face—about myself, about my past.
The breeze picked up as if agreeing with my thoughts. I zipped up my jacket and started walking, not sure where I was headed next—but knowing I couldn't keep walking in circles anymore.
In the distance, I noticed a kid—couldn't have been more than thirteen—standing by the corner, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Smoke curled around him like a warning. I paused, unsure if I should step in. But something about the look in his eyes... I couldn't just walk away.
I walked over slowly. "What are you doing, kid?"
He looked at me, unbothered. "I'm smoking. Can't you see?" he replied, attitude sharp. Then, with a crooked smirk, he added, "Don't you do it too?"
I hesitated, caught off guard. "Yeah—I... I do," I admitted, my voice faltering. "But you're too young for this."
He scoffed. "Too young? That's what they all say. But life doesn't wait for me to grow up. So why should I?"
His words hit harder than I expected. There was pain behind them—like he wasn't just talking about cigarettes. Like something deeper was eating at him.
I took a step closer, lowering my voice. "What's going on, really? This isn't just about smoking, is it?"
He looked away, silent now. The smirk was gone.
Maybe he needed someone to care. Maybe, in some weird way, we both did
"And you have no reason to smoke," I said, raising an eyebrow. "But I do."
He shot back, sharp and quick, "I don't have reasons? Are you sure about that?"
His words stopped me cold. I didn't expect that kind of fire from a kid. I stared at him, surprised that someone so young could be carrying something heavy enough to drive him to this.
Trying to play it cool, I crossed my arms. "Alright then… what's your reason?"
He took a long drag, exhaled slowly, and looked at me dead in the eye. "You really wanna know? I haven't slept properly in months. NIGHTMARES. Every single night."
That word—nightmare—cut through me like a blade. I froze.
He kept talking, going on about the darkness, the things he saw when he closed his eyes, how it made him feel like he was going insane. But I barely heard the rest. I was too stunned by one simple truth:
I wasn't the only one