Back in New York City, Mike lay stretched out on the familiar leather couch in his therapist's office, staring up at the ceiling with a mixture of frustration and exhaustion etched across his face. The muted hum of the city outside filtered through the thick windows, a distant reminder of the chaos that loomed just beyond the room’s calm walls.

  Dr. Whitaker, his therapist, sat in her usual chair, clipboard resting on her lap, her pen poised to capture his words. She studied him with a practiced calm.

  "So, Mike," Dr. Whitaker began, her voice gentle but probing. "How have you been doing since our last session? How has your journey with grief been unfolding?"

  Mike's jaw tightened, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I wish you wouldn’t call it a journey," he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration.

  Dr. Whitaker paused, the shift in his tone not lost on her. "I’m sorry," she said, her voice softening. "By your tone, I take it you’re not feeling any closer to finding peace with your sister's death?"

  Mike stared at the floor for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling in. "How could I?" he replied, his voice a little more strained now. "How am I supposed to just accept that she’s gone? Like she never existed, like I’m supposed to just move on and forget?" He ran a hand through his hair, the edges of his frustration now mixing with sorrow. "It’s not that simple."

  Dr. Whitaker leaned forward slightly, her eyes studying him with quiet understanding. "Maybe 'move on' is the wrong term," she said, choosing her words carefully. "The pain doesn’t ever really disappear. It doesn’t just vanish, Mike. It's something we have to learn to live with, in one way or another. And everyone, well... everyone processes it differently. It takes its own shape for each person."

  Mike let out a shaky breath, his hands clenched in his lap as he mulled over her words. "So, it’s just something I have to... carry?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the idea of it felt like an unbearable weight.

  Dr. Whitaker responded quietly, offering a soft smile. "In some ways, yes. But that doesn't mean you carry it alone. The way we live with grief—it can evolve, it can shift. You don’t have to do it all at once, and you certainly don’t have to do it perfectly. There’s no 'right' way, just your way." She paused, allowing the silence to settle before adding, "And no matter how it manifests, it’s okay to feel what you’re feeling."

  Mike remained quiet, absorbing her words. His heart ached as he thought of his sister, but her absence, though constant, had taken on a different tone over time—a strange mix of sorrow and acceptance, even if he wasn’t quite ready to name it yet. He nodded slowly, uncertain.

  "You keep saying I don’t have to carry this alone," Mike began, his voice trembling with the weight of unspoken pain. "But the truth is, the one person who could have helped me carry this burden is gone." He paused, swallowing hard, his eyes misting with unshed tears. "My sister... my father, my mother, and even my best friend. All dead. All taken by cancer."

  His voice cracked on the last word, and he clenched his fists as if the anger and sadness threatening to overwhelm him could be physically restrained. "It’s not fair," he said, his tone sharp, almost a whisper but laced with raw emotion. "It’s just not fair. I’ve lost everyone I ever leaned on, everyone I ever loved. And now... I’m all alone."

  The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, like the silence that followed. Mike stared down at his hands, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his grief. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint ticking of a clock on the wall, marking time that felt frozen for him.

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  Dr. Whitaker sat quietly for a beat, allowing the intensity of his words to settle. Her eyes softened as she spoke, her voice steady but full of compassion. "Mike, I can’t begin to imagine how much pain you’re carrying. Losing so many people you love... it’s devastating. And you’re right—it’s not fair. None of it is fair."

  Mike’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t look up. His silence spoke volumes.

  "But," Dr. Whitaker continued gently, "being alone doesn’t mean you have to carry this burden without any help. The people you lost—they loved you, Mike. They wouldn’t want you to feel like this weight is solely yours to bear. And even though they’re gone, their love for you isn’t. That love... it’s still a part of you."

  Mike shook his head, his voice low and strained. "Love doesn’t bring them back. It doesn’t stop this ache in my chest, or the emptiness that keeps swallowing me whole."

  "No," Dr. Whitaker acknowledged, leaning forward slightly. "It doesn’t bring them back. But it can give you strength to take one step, and then another. And maybe, with time, to find connection again. You don’t have to rush, Mike, and you don’t have to do it all at once. But you’re not as alone as you feel. I’m here to help you, and there are others who would, too, if you let them in."

  "I’ll... keep that in mind," Mike mumbled with uncertainty in his voice.

  Before he could ask more, the world around him began to shift. Just like all the times before, the dream space started to unravel. The sky splintered into jagged cracks, and the ground beneath his feet rippled like water, breaking apart in jagged fragments. The air grew cold, heavy with the encroaching presence of the shadows, which slithered toward him like living ink, their jagged tendrils clawing hungrily in his direction.

  This was a dream. Mike knew it now, the same way he had in all the other times before. And yet, despite the familiarity, the collapse always brought a suffocating dread.

  "Dr. Whitaker," he said suddenly, his voice oddly calm as he turned to face her amidst the chaos. "What am I supposed to do if this is all just a dream? If none of it is real?"

  Dr. Whitaker, sitting composed in the midst of the crumbling dreamscape, didn’t flinch. Her expression was calm, but her eyes held a strange intensity, almost as if she wasn’t entirely the therapist he thought she was. When she spoke, her voice carried an uncharacteristic weight, the words sharp and deliberate.

  "You live, Mike," she said firmly, her tone cutting through the cacophony of the collapsing world. "Regardless of whether it’s real or not."

  Her response stunned him. It wasn’t the measured, carefully considered answer he would have expected from her, and it carried a conviction that struck deeper than he anticipated. He stared at her, the shadows closing in, confusion flickering in his eyes. "What does that even mean?" he pressed, his calm facade cracking. "How do I live if none of this is real?"

  "You don’t need the world to be real for your choices to matter," she replied, stepping closer, her presence somehow steadying amidst the chaos. "Your pain, your joy, your fear—they’re yours, Mike. Even in a dream, they’re real to you. That’s enough. You move forward. You fight. You live."

  The words resonated in a way that left him momentarily speechless. The shadows were nearly upon him now, their cold, inky darkness threatening to swallow him whole. Yet her words gave him pause, a strange calm blooming in his chest despite the chaos.

  "And if I can’t?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the roar of the collapsing dream. "What if I fail?"

  Dr. Whitaker’s expression softened, her gaze steady and unwavering. "Then you try again," she said gently, yet with a firmness that brooked no argument. "Living isn’t about being perfect. It’s about choosing to keep going, even when it feels impossible."

  As the shadows surged forward, blotting out the last remnants of the dream world, her voice echoed in his mind. "You live, Mike. That’s what you do."

  And then, everything went dark.