I took my first step into the building, and an overwhelming
sense of dread hit me like a wave. Still, I kept walking until I reached a
large golden elevator—open, waiting, like it knew I was coming. I stepped
inside. There were eight buttons, but only seven had numbers. The last one was
blank. Before I could decide what to press, the first button lit up on its own.
The doors opened to a room covered wall to wall in
scribbles—messy handwriting that looked too much like mine. As I stepped
closer, I realized what they were: lists , lists of Dreams I once had, plans
that stayed plans, goals I never reached. Every friend I’d made since
kindergarten. Every meal my mom had cooked. Every book I ever read. Every “what
if.” Tears blurred my vision. This wasn’t a room—it was a memory graveyard. A
reminder of everything I meant to do, everything I failed to become. I had to
leave.
Back in the elevator, I barely had time to breathe before
the next button lit up. This time, I walked into a room surrounded by glowing
holograms, like a movie theatre but personal. Memories spun around me—some
fast, some painfully slow. I watched myself fall down the stairs in eighth
grade. Freeze up during the school debate. Get caught reading a One Direction
Wattpad fanfic in class. I should’ve been humiliated, but I wasn’t. These were
the moments that once kept me up at night. Now, they felt distant, almost
comforting. Somehow, they brought me here.
The next room was quiet. Photographs hovered in mid-air—faces
I’d forgotten how to remember. People I once called mine. Some left gently,
others slammed the door. Some I let go of, some let go of me. The silence hurt
more than noise ever could.
Then came the noise. Loud, chaotic, a storm of every fear
I’d ever had—failure, loneliness, not being enough, being too much. My thoughts
screamed over one another until I spotted something in the middle of it all: a
small version of me, curled up but alive. Still breathing.
The next space surprised me. It looked like a celebration. A
wedding, a book launch, a passport with too many stamps. Every version of me
that only lived in daydreams. None of it had happened, but for a moment, I
believed it still could.
Then mirrors. Endless mirrors, each showing a different
me—childlike, bitter, smiling, breaking. I didn’t look away. These weren’t
strangers. They were all parts of me I’d been avoiding. I nodded to each one.
The last room was still. One chair, nothing more. I sat. No
noise. No spiralling thoughts. Just breath. Just quiet. Not emptiness—peace.
When I returned to the elevator, the final, unlabeled button
glowed faintly.
But I wasn’t ready for that one.
Not yet. As the final floor opened, everything
collapsed—white noise, static, then silence. I gasped awake. A doctor leaned
in, eyes wide. “She’s alive,” he whispered.
