Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dreams lasting five to twenty minutes may not be remembered by an ordinary person living an ordinary life like most people today. But for me, it is the most important time in the 24 hours of my day, as I hardly live the life I wish for, or at least the one in which I am me with my flaws that no one else can tolerate. My name is Florian. As for age, I don’t care as long as I haven’t lived each stage to the fullest.

Is it because of my choices? No, I can’t remember the last time I chose something I really wanted. If we knew how our journey would end, if we knew the outcome of our choices, would we have taken the same path? I don’t know.

Another sheet of paper. For the hundredth or thousandth time, I write the same introduction, the same words, the same narrative and story. That’s me, Florian. Like the last time, I put the paper aside, hoping to finish it the next day. It’s 3 a.m., my favorite time, if for no other reason than it’s the time when I am me. The time when I wait to see how the dream will be this time. Even a nightmare might be better than my life.

Hours pass like years as I imagine a story in which I am the protagonist, trying to avoid an endless conversation with my ego, with Florian’s biggest critic. He keeps belittling me and blaming me for the situation I’m in, even though we both know we’re here because of other people’s choices, people we would sacrifice for because most of us don’t live for ourselves, but for other people until we forget who we really are.

Two hours have passed, no noise yet. The noise of the old woman who lives in the apartment next door. An old woman named Christine, the only person in my life right now. She was the first woman I talked to the day I came here, she gave me lunch and dinner every day. If optimism was a person, it would be Christine. The smile never left her white, wrinkle-free face. Blue eyes. White hair almost yellow. Everything about her was perfect, like an angel on earth. She was 56 years old.

Her husband died five years ago. She never stopped talking about him whenever she had a chance. She loved him more than she loved herself. I can’t imagine how she felt the day her husband died, and I don’t want to.

Three years I spent here, she is the bright candle that illuminates my day. Her voice never leaves my mind. How could I forget it when it’s the voice that wakes me up every morning to eat breakfast and hear old stories she tells me. She’s a talker by nature. Even if it’s meaningless, I get it when you have only one person left in your life. I get it. I can’t stop listening to her.

Christine passed away today.

Kristen had two daughters. One of them passed away just a few months after she was born at least that’s what she once told me. The other daughter lives in America. She moved there the day her father, Justin, died. I’ve never seen her. Not for any particular reason… she simply never came back.

I don’t know if she ever found out her mother passed away. I haven’t spoken to her in over five years. Did she hear the news? I don’t know. Will it affect her? Yes.

We never realize the weight of moments until they slip through our fingers. We never understand the value of life with our loved ones until they're gone.

I woke up after nearly an hour of drifting, then quietly prepared my breakfast. The silence was thick, a silence you could hear… like words without sound. Moments, memories… they rushed through me like a flood, too fast to comprehend the emptiness Kristen left behind. Her scent was still there.

How could it not be? She spent most of her time here, singing those soft old songs with that warm voice of hers. I had memorized them by heart, just from hearing them every day.

I was drowning in a sea of thought and memory when the silence was shattered by a knock on the door. I opened it.

And there she was.

A young woman in the full bloom of her twenties. Her beauty was impossible to describe like trying to explain the taste of water. But I recognized her. By the color of her hair, the shape of her eyes.

“Are you Kristen’s daughter?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied, tears fighting their way to the surface. She was just like her mother too proud to cry in front of others. You couldn’t see the tears, but you could feel them, right there, trembling at the edge of her soul.

Why now? Why did you never speak to her all these years? Why didn’t you come to see her once?

A thousand questions raced through my mind in just a few seconds. I hugged her not to find answers, but to offer silence. Then gently, I asked her to come inside.

Chapter Text

The house was messier than usual, and honestly, I didn’t care. What’s the point of everything being in order if there’s no one to share it with? I set breakfast on the table and asked her to sit. I asked her what her name was,
"Yasmin," she answered.

Why have you been away from your mother for so long, Yasmin?
That question flashed in my mind, but I knew it wasn’t the right moment to ask, It was written all over her face....that her insides carried a city in ruins, That question had already haunted her long before she came here, maybe even before she heard the news.

No one really knows what others carry inside, but not many bother to respect other people’s pain.
I asked her to eat and get dressed, Today was her mother’s funeral.

"How did my mom spend her time?" she asked, her voice trembling, weighed with regret for a life she didn’t get to live beside her.
"That’s a long story," I replied. "And this isn’t the time. We have to leave now if we want to make it on time."

What Christine was doing didn’t matter anymore....not when no one cared enough to ask while she was still alive.
I pushed the thought aside, knowing it would come back later, triggered by something small and meaningless, Like all those answers that only come too late, after we’ve locked away so much pain without realizing it.

You’re probably asking yourself now, how do I know she didn’t want to come see her mother? Or that she couldn’t? Weren’t you the one who said not to judge others and to respect their emotions?
I know those questions are running through your mind, or maybe you’ve already asked them while reading this.

But really, do excuses have a place in moments like this? Would Christine accept never seeing her daughter again because of some excuse or circumstance?
Can you truly put yourself in Christine’s place and feel what she felt?

Have you ever done that...stepped into someone else’s shoes and tried to feel what they feel? Or are we only ever concerned with being understood, regardless of what others have been through or are going through?

One question leads to another, The answers remain unknown. Each of us is the protagonist of our own story, and those around us are just background figures....expected to move in sync with what we feel, what we lived, and how we see things.

Back to where I was, A crowd of people. Some familiar, some not. Everyone dressed in black, Everyone’s face shadowed with sorrow.
A minute of silence for Christine. Then, it all collapsed into tears....as if they had just realized her worth.

But that didn’t matter now.
“Did anyone come here with you, or are you alone? If you can’t stay by yourself, you can come stay with me during your time here,” I said.

She raised her eyes to me. “I’m not going back to America. I brought all my things with me.”

Before I could say anything, the man who lived across from us interrupted, An old man with white hair, a white beard, and a smile that never left his face despite the miserable life he lived,
“Christine would be proud of you, Thomas. You were like the son she never had. I hope you’re doing well, son. I’m always here if you need anything.”

I hugged him, I didn’t even notice when the tears began falling, Like a child who just had his favorite toy taken away, or who came running home from school only to find the TV turned off before he could catch his favorite cartoons.

Was I crying because Christine died?
Was I crying because I’d be left alone?
Or was it just that I should’ve cried a long time ago, and now it was finally coming out?

The answer to all of that is: yes.

On the way back, I kept thinking about how life would be without Christine.
Am I the only one who saw her this way?
Am I the only one who won’t forget her?

What can a person do so they won’t be forgotten?

Thomas! Thomas!

Yasmin woke me up, I found her setting the table, she had made breakfast.
Last night was heavy for all of us, And when I say “us,” I mean me, Florian, and maybe even Yasmin.

Florian is the person I write about before I sleep, Florian is who I run to in my mind when I need to escape reality.
Florian is me.
Or maybe we’re both just reflections of someone even higher up.

Why did I begin the story as Florian and now say I’m Thomas?
Have you asked yourself that?

Thomas is the one living the truth. In the silence of the night, he paints Florian in words...a person who never existed in his reality but is real on paper,
Florian is the echo that always comes back to him, The voice that blames, that judges. Like the sound of thoughts bouncing off the walls of the mind, never letting him rest.

Thomas runs from his truth by writing, He creates Florian to face it,
But in the end, he suffers from Florian's voice the most.

Chapter Text

Thomas! Thomas!

Yasmin woke me up early, urging me to join her for breakfast. What surprised me most was the breakfast itself, it was exactly the same as what Christine used to make: lemon juice, some bread, butter, and olives. Especially the olives… they were Christine’s favorite.

Yasmin smiled and said, "this is the same breakfast Christine used to make for you, right?"

Yeah... it’s strange. She used to prepare it just like this, even though she only really liked the olives.

I could tell that for a brief moment, she drifted into memories, just like me.

"My mom always said everything happens for a reason. But do we really get to choose our paths in life, or is everything following some higher plan?"

Yasmin laughed as she scratched her head, "for me, I think people should try to make their own choices, adapt to what life throws at them, and enjoy the ride. That’s how you taste life."

Was that what I was doing in my life? Definitely not.

Soon after, I left for work at the corner grocery store. Yasmin had to head home to get ready for her boyfriend’s arrival from America.

The day dragged on full of people coming in and out, buying what they needed. I was lost in thought all day, unable to shake my mind from spinning. Then, she walked in an Asian girl, not too tall, with long hair and that unmistakable kind of beauty only certain faces carry.

"Hi... I’m new in the area and just moved nearby. Do you know where I could find some nice furniture around here?"

I stepped outside with her to point out a spot about 500 meters down the street. "It’s not fancy, but you’ll find some basic stuff. And if it doesn’t suit you, they’ll probably point you to better places."

She smiled and extended her hand. "I’m Yuna."

"Thomas", I replied. "Welcome to the neighborhood."

When I got home later, I lay down and stared at the ceiling. That eerie feeling crept over me again that sense that someone’s watching me. Like I wasn’t alone. Was it just the aftermath of Christine’s death, or something more?

"Do you really think you’re in control of your life? You make me laugh! Even the laughter you think is your own was written for you... You’re just a pawn in this game."

Florian’s voice. I knew it immediately.

I tried to shake it off by writing something down like I always do, but... my papers were missing. "I’m sure I left them here! How could they just disappear?"

I opened the drawer and found a small note. Just a single sentence: Freedom is just an illusion.

"I’m sure I didn’t write this. So who did?" No one else has been in my house. No one knows me well enough to leave this.

I tried to steady my breathing, looked at the mirror, and there it was. Someone who looked just like me, staring at me, smiling.

"I’m not an illusion... I’m you. I’m the thought that keeps you moving."

I turned quickly, but there was no one there." Am I dreaming?"

I ignored it all, took a sleeping pill, and drifted off until my alarm jolted me awake the next morning. I got up, showered, and headed to the store.

While arranging the shelves, Yuna walked in with a soft smile. "Good morning, Thomas."

"Good morning, Yuna. You seem full of energy today. I like the way you brighten up the room when you walk in."

She laughed, but I could tell it was to cover some deeper sadness in her eyes.

"We should appreciate the little things we have. Not everyone is lucky enough to enjoy them... In the end, freedom is just an illusion. People like us, we just follow a script".

Her words hit me hard. This was the third time I’d heard something like this first from Yasmin, then Florian, and now Yuna.

We agreed to grab coffee later. I put on my best outfit, knowing I’d be meeting the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. For the first time in a while, I felt a sense of hope.

When I arrived, she was waiting. The place had a cozy, almost mysterious vibe dim lighting, soft music. It felt like there was some unspoken connection between us, even though we barely knew each other.

We sat down, ordered coffee.

Yuna looked into my eyes, "Thomas, have you ever wondered what really happens when you wake up each morning? Do you think it’s really you who wakes up... or something else?"

I laughed nervously." Honestly, I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like my life is just... some big game. Like a play, and I’m just an actor."

Yuna leaned in closer, sipping her coffee. "And where do you think that feeling comes from?"

"Maybe... after Christine... it all changed. It’s like... something isn’t quite right anymore."

She gave a strange, almost unsettling laugh. "Thomas... even death is just a door. It’s how you find the truth."

"The truth?" I asked, confused.

"Thomas, not everything is as it seems", she said as she put on her jacket like nothing had happened. "It was nice meeting you. See you around... And don’t forget.... freedom is just an illusion."