Chapter 3: Nightmares and New Beginnings

Before I could answer, everything went pitch black.

Was I blind, or was there a power outage?

"Michael, Michael." My voice shook with nerves.

"I’m here."

"Can you come over? Please." I tossed pride aside.

The sofa beside me dipped as he sat. A warm hand found mine, and I squeezed it. "You’re Michael, right?"

...

Suddenly, the lights flickered back on, revealing his pale, expressionless face.

"You scared me!"

For a split second, I wanted to hang him from the ceiling fan.

"... Sorry, I’ll call the building manager."

While he made the call, I scanned the room, glancing nervously toward the bathroom. My imagination ran wild—childhood fears resurfacing.

I clung to his arm, shamelessly, like an octopus.

"The power system’s down. No clue why. It’s 1 a.m. now—might be fixed by morning."

1 a.m.? We’d talked for hours without noticing.

I looked at the dark house, feeling uneasy. "Um, can you walk me to my room?"

Afraid he’d refuse, I dropped all pretense. "I’m scared, boohoo..."

As a kid, I lived alone on one floor, the light switch far from my bed. Every night, my parents would escort me, tuck me in, then switch off the lights, leaving me in the dark.

He chuckled, "Didn’t you say as long as someone’s with you, no horror movie is scary?"

I perked up. Since he was off work tomorrow, I suggested, "Let’s test it out?"

Tonight had the perfect atmosphere—a rare opportunity.

"Okay."

"Which room? Yours or mine? No, mine. That way I can sleep right after. Hehe."

"Ahem!" He tried to speak but choked.

"Come on!" I was pumped.

I pulled back the covers, wrapped us both up, and clicked through my movie collection: "It," "The Ring," "The Conjuring"...

"Which one?" I tilted my head.

He pointed at "It." "That one—it’s newer."

"Not a fan of the classics, huh?" I joked.

But soon I was glued to the screen. "Wow, the lead’s handsome."

"Wow, she’s gorgeous."

...

Satisfied after the movie, I shut down the computer. The silence felt eerie.

Michael yawned, said he was heading to bed.

Me: !

No way. I wasn’t sleepy and didn’t want to be alone.

"... If you’re really tired, you can sleep here. I don’t mind." Worried he’d say no, I pulled the covers over his head. "Just sleep!"

I lay down quickly. In the quiet, I heard him sigh.

Great, now he probably thinks I’m annoying.

No alarm needed—I woke up at noon. Michael was still asleep. I grabbed my laptop to jot down last night’s dream.

Since I was little, nightmares haunted me. Either nothing, or something terrifying.

Facing fear is hard enough—challenging it takes real guts. I don’t know when my clown will finally be defeated.

When Michael woke, I asked, "Hungry?"

He mumbled, "Starving."

"Then hurry up and cook!" I bossed him around.

While Michael cooked, the delicious smell filled the apartment. My stomach ached, so I distracted myself by pulling out a writing notebook.

"You speak Russian?" He appeared beside me.

I raised an eyebrow. "Yep."

"I saw a bunch of language books on your shelf yesterday. How many do you speak?"

I downplayed it. "Just five."

He was intrigued. "Which five?"

"English, Russian, German, French..." I paused for effect.

"And?"

"Guess."

"Japanese or Italian?"

I blinked. "Spanish."

He realized I was teasing and looked annoyed.

The food wasn’t ready yet, and my stomach growled louder. The pain got worse, but I hung on, cleaned up last night’s trash, and headed downstairs.

Every step made the pain worse, like a dull knife digging into my stomach.

After dumping the trash, I lost the strength to stand and had to squat by the elevator, still in pajamas, empty-handed.

No idea how long I sat there—my appetite gone.

"Lillian?!"

I gritted my teeth and stood when I heard Michael’s voice. Suddenly, everything went black and dizzy.

A sharp smell of disinfectant filled my nose. I opened my eyes to see an IV drip attached to my arm.

... Seriously?

After a while, Michael appeared. When he saw me awake, he rushed over, holding a bag.

"When did you wake up?"

"Just now."

"After I finished cooking, you didn’t come home. I thought something was wrong. I found you squatting downstairs." He spoke slowly. "Feeling better now?"

"Yeah."

"Do you know why you fainted?"

I know my body pretty well. "Low blood sugar. I was hungry."

He snorted, face unreadable. "Stomach cancer."

Me: !

My brain froze—stomach cancer? Was he serious?

I asked, terrified, "Really?"

He nodded. "Got you some plain porridge. You’re on a diet now. If you want something else, wait a few days."

I calmed down. I’ve always had gastritis but thought I’d gotten lucky. I never expected... I’m not afraid of dying, but pain? Oh man, cancer!

I don’t care if I go early or late, just not before my parents. If I die first, they’d be devastated, and I’d never rest easy.

I looked at him, sincere. "Michael, you might have to handle things for my parents, too."

A wave of sadness hit me. Planning my own aftercare felt surreal.

"Wait, what did the doctor say? Is it serious? Early or late stage?"

He handed me a paper, impatient. "Read it yourself."

Heart pounding, I saw "chronic gastritis" on the diagnosis. I waved Michael over, smiling sweetly. "Little Michael, come here. I have something to tell you."

He hesitated, then leaned in.

I grabbed his ear, and his scream echoed through the hospital room.

Back home, he grumbled, "Who told you to mess up your stomach? Untreated, it can turn into cancer!"

I rolled my eyes, guilty. "Yeah, yeah, you’re right."

"Still being sarcastic?"

...

At 7:30, I crashed on the sofa and randomly picked a movie—"Malèna."

Maybe it was the medicine, but I got sleepy fast. Just as the screen showed a risqué scene, Michael glanced at me.

I slowly typed a question mark. "?"

"Never seen it?"

He mumbled, "Anyway, you don’t have feelings for me."

"What’d you say?"

"Nothing." He turned back to the movie.

Weird.

Being alone at night, a little excitement can spark some feelings. I got up to go to my room and hug my big bed.

"You’re not watching?" he called after me.

I closed the door, tossing out, "You’ve got hands!"

...

Alone again, the apartment was silent.

I made egg fried rice, but after two bites, I lost my appetite. I’d become spoiled by Michael’s cooking—takeout didn’t tempt me anymore.

Five hours without Michael, and I missed him.

Finally, he got off work, but he had overtime.

At night, he looked like a different person, face drawn, breathing deep, trying to stay calm.

Me: ?

I poured him water, then went back to reading.

He drank quietly, head down, not moving.

"Are you satisfied with life right now?" he asked, echoing that earlier question.

I put down my book. "It’s fine."

He seemed lost, staring at his hands.

"Any hobbies? Games, coding, sports, art...?" I asked.

He shook his head, then hesitated. "Does solving math problems count?"

Was he joking?

He started to open up. "Since I was a kid, I was only good at studying. When my parents divorced, they argued about where I’d go or how much money they’d give me. I got tired of it and focused on school. Teachers said the SATs were my ticket out, so I worked hard. They didn’t want me; I wanted to leave."

"Maybe I was just rebellious. When they said east, I went west. In college, I focused on making money because I didn’t want their ‘handouts.’ I never touched the money in my account."

"After a while, I gave all their money back. I thought I’d be proud, but it didn’t make me happy."

"I thought if I worked hard, I’d be fine. But there are always unwritten rules—you don’t care until they hit you."

I guessed he’d faced workplace drama today, stirring up old memories. It was the first time I’d heard his story in detail. I admired him.

"Maybe try therapy," I suggested.

He looked at me, genuinely interested.

"When I’m down, I imagine myself floating above it all, looking down on the universe. Compared to the cosmos, everything on Earth is tiny—me, my problems, everyone else."

"Thinking like that, I feel compassion for the bad stuff around me, and my mind feels free. It’s like mental victory, but I call it spiritual nihilism."

"Doesn’t that make you feel disconnected?"

"No, I just let myself float, and if I keep floating, I become ‘Ah Float.’ It’s just one way to cope. You can go to heaven or hide underground. But hiding is more like avoidance—liberation from mental chains. You have to accept things before you can move forward."

I didn’t ask about the details. I could guess, but I’m not familiar with workplace politics, so I didn’t offer advice.

I couldn’t truly empathize.

He was low. The hardest part is getting through the present, not the past or future. Whether he makes it through is up to him—and I believe he will.

"Relax, get some sleep. You’ve got looks and a wife!"

"If not, I’ll back you up."

He lowered his head, hands shaking, voice muffled. "Can I hug you?"

I smiled. "Of course."

We talked for hours that night. I rambled about everything from life goals to the origin of the universe. No idea how much Michael actually absorbed.

He seemed to recover, but later, I felt a little down myself.

So I decided to travel—just go. I picked a snowy mountain out west, searching the map for inspiration.