I woke up at 3 a.m., my mind buzzing with thoughts and emotions. Tears streamed down my cheeks in a torrent as I processed the dreams that had left me awake in a world different from my imagination.

Now it’s 6 a.m., and I still haven’t found peace or returned to the slumber my body craves. My eyes are bruised from my restless journey, with red rings around them from my stifled cries.

The dream was pleasant, but the realization that it wasn’t real jolted me back to a stark and empty reality.

I am no longer the woman I used to be. My mask hides a soul that no longer finds joy in what once brought happiness. My heart feels colder, darker, and at times, loveless. Yet, there is still a longing to return to the simple girl who loved without expectation.

People believe this girl still exists, that she is alive and thriving. She is a walking, breathing version of who I once was, and the difference is only visible when I speak of it.

Few know of my struggles, my battles, and my mental anguish. But I can tell you now that these are rooted in the death of my father—he died four years ago.

The dream I so loved was one where my father laughed beside me. I thought it was real—until I awoke.