Page 13 of Presence

But you were happy. You are never happy in your dreams.

That thought echoes in my mind, persistent and nagging. Sleep usually brings unease and dread, yet in that dream, before the fear, there was a moment of happiness, a feeling of being connected with something... someone.

I lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together the fragments of the dream. Then something happens.

A face with deep blue eyes and abyss-black hair appears in my mind. It’s foggy, hazy, but immediately familiar.

A man. I’ve seen him before. I’ve seen him in a dream.

“You need to remember our meeting here,” his voice rings in my mind. That’s what he told me before everything turned to pain and fear.

He was there right before the dream collapsed. He held me close before I was consumed by the shadows.

Could he be the guardian spirit talked about?

I’m a skeptical person. Ever since witnessing what happened to my mother, I’ve concluded that no deity could possibly exist and watch over us. That idea clashes with what people say about these deities being inherently good, about them embracing us as long as we embrace them.

Well, my mother embraced.

She believed in God so fiercely that even when she beat me, even when she told me I was a waste of life, she believed she’d be saved. Those memories still haunt me, despite my wish to erase them.

Guess what? The deities never helped. They abandoned her. Just like I did. And unless Cam’s family is made up of godly DNA, they never helped me either.

But now, despite always hating to follow in her footsteps, I can’t ignore the nagging feeling that this might be different. This guardian spirit might be real. Maybe it finally came to save me.

“Ugh.” I run both hands over my face, then sling my head backward and stare at the ceiling, feeling dizzy as the room seems to spin. “Whatever.”

Whether the man in my dream was real or not, I can’t let this chance slip by. I slept the entire night! And now it’s morning. My business is drowning, my body is crying for help, and there’s literally no food in my fridge.

Gotta do something about all that.

I push myself up from the desk, my body heavy with exhaustion. A shower and a quick grocery run didn’t help much; I still feel like I haven’t slept at all. I’m wiped out. Yet, sorting the groceries and getting some fresh air gave me a tiny spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, I can handle this.

It’s been over six months since I’ve done any real work. Before that, I kept convincing myself I could manage, even though I was a complete mess. Eventually, I had to face reality and throw in the towel. But now, I have a chance for recovery. I’ve got to fix my life, no matter what. Even if it’s difficult, I need to prove to myself that I can turn things around.

First, I tackle the financial mess. I open my banking app and grimace at the dwindling balance. I start figuring out how much I can set aside for bills and basic expenses. It’s tight, but it’s doable. If the business hadn’t been doing well before all this, I’d be in serious trouble.

Next, I brace myself and open my email. It’s a nightmare of unread messages: spam, client inquiries, a few urgent ones from past clients. I take a deep breath and start sorting, replying to the most critical ones first. I apologize for the delay, explain I had some health issues, and promise to get back on track. Honestly, I’m not sure I can keep that promise, but it’s a start.

I move on to my business website, updating services, refreshing my portfolio, and writing a blog post explaining my temporary hiatus and announcing my return. I lose track of time, feeling more like my old self with each word I type.

Hours pass, and by the time I finish, my eyes are heavy, but it’s a better kind of tired than usually—the kind that comes from being productive and making progress.

Finally, I allow myself a break.

I make a cup of tea and sit by the window, watching the sky turn a beautiful shade of orange and pink as the sun sets. It’s stunning, really. But it’s also terrifying. The sunset means the darkness is coming, and with it, another sleepless night filled with racing thoughts I can’t quiet.

I hold onto my warm mug tightly, trying to anchor myself in the moment—the warmth of the tea, the hues of the sky, the gentle buzz of the city outside. I’m fine. But once you program your body to expect bad things with certain triggers, it’s easier said than done to break that pattern.

The fear creeps in slowly, first taking hold of my lungs. They feel empty all of a sudden, as if there’s no air to breathe. Then it seeps into my bones, sending shivers through me. Before I even realize it, sweat beads on my forehead and my breaths come out raspy and wheezing.

Faster than lightning, I’m in the bathroom, splashing cold water on my hands and then onto my face in a brisk motion. I take a moment to look at my reflection. The person staring back at me looks more tired than ever, like nothing has changed at all. I’ve got bags under my eyes, they’re bloodshot, and my skin’s so pale it looks more dead than porcelain.

In other words, I look awful.

For a moment, I feel simply hopeless. All that work I did today, all that effort to pull myself back into the realm of the living, and for what? To be dragged back down by the mere approach of night?

I straighten up, turning off the tap. I’ve made one step forward. Now I just have to keep moving. No stopping and backing down.

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