Falling through forever

Aiden soon brings me my latte and heads back to take another order. I sip it slowly, taking small peeks at the table where Dr. Asher is enjoying his date. He sure goes on a lot of dates, but I can't help wondering why he hasn't found a suitable girlfriend yet. Maybe some people just have peculiar tastes in women and refuse to settle until they find the one.

To my surprise, the woman he's with is Vanessa Raymond, a nurse from the hospital. I guess he's not as big of a player as I thought. His head turns slightly in my direction, and for a brief second, I think he notices me. But then, he looks away, smiling and sipping his coffee as if I don't exist.

What was that? He knows I'm under the same roof, but he doesn't even bother to say a casual "hey" or flash a polite smile. He's my doctor, for heaven's sake!

"Hey, what if someone you know just ignored you in a public place? Isn't that humiliating?" I ask Aiden, keeping my gaze fixed on Dr. Asher and Vanessa.

"Well, yeah. It probably means they don't want to have any interaction with you," Aiden replies, leaning on the counter.

"Why's that?" I ask.

"Maybe they're ashamed of you—or themselves," Aiden says, glancing over my shoulder.

"It's their second date," he adds suddenly, making me glare at him.

"I know," I say, offended. He must've caught me sneaking glances at their table. That's why he's teasing me.

"Vanessa has a great personality, you know. She's a regular here," he continues, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

"I bet. You know Dr. Asher?" He ask.

"How do you know?" I asks, my tone curious.

"You don't remember?" he say, looking at me with disbelief.

"What?" I ask, completely lost.

"Rae, I'm the one who took you to the hospital after your accident," Aiden says, his expression serious.

"The accident happened right in front of this café," he continues.

"No, you're kidding," I say, stepping back in disbelief.

"I'm surprised you don't remember. You were waiting for my shift to end because it was late, and I offered to drop you home. But somehow, you ended up on the road, and then… that happened," Aiden says, guilt written all over his face.

"Aiden, I don't remember any of it. Honestly, I think it's better that way. Look, I'm fine now—it's been two weeks," I say, laughing to lighten the mood.

When I glance back, Dr. Asher and Vanessa are getting ready to leave. He helps her with her coat as they walk out, disappearing into the night.

I look back at Aiden, who's still staring at the counter.

"I told myself not to bring it up—it must've been traumatizing for you. But I couldn't help…"

"Aiden," I interrupt, gently placing my hand over his.

His eyes lift to meet mine, soft brown and filled with worry. God, how can Aiden be so pretty?

"It's not your fault. I'm not traumatized. I barely remember anything," I say, reassuring him.

"You shouldn't take the blame unless you pushed me in front of the truck," I add with a laugh, and he laughs with me, though the guilt still lingers in his eyes.

"Miss Kemp."

A faint voice pulls my attention, and I turn to see Dr. Asher standing there. My stomach twists in surprise.

"Yes, Dr. Asher?" The words tumble out before I can think. What is he still doing here? His date ended, so shouldn't he have left already?

"How are you feeling?" he asks, his tone straightforward.

"Great. How was the date?" I ask without hesitation.

"Better than the last one."

"Any progress?" I tease.

"I should be the one asking you that," he replies, smirking.

"Yeah, of course," I say, feeling awkward.

The silence stretches between us. He just stands there, staring at me with his piercing green eyes.

"Wanna grab a coffee?" I finally ask, breaking the tension.

"Thanks, but I already had coffee," he says.

"How about an apple cider?" Aiden chimes in from behind.

"Classic," I mutter, unable to stop myself from smiling as Aiden grins.

___

"So, how's business? Any new victim?" I tease, my tone mocking.

"I prefer to focus on one victim at a time," Dr. Asher replies, matching my tone effortlessly.

"And I'm glad to tell you the victim is falling for it again," I say, grinning.

"What is it this time? My liver?" I ask.

"I'll think about it," he says, taking a sip of his apple cider.

A minute passes in silence, both of us blending into the café's background noise. Then he suddenly asks, "I'm sorry, but what's wrong with your fingers?" His brow furrows as his gaze fixes on my fingertips.

I glance down at my hands, and a wave of panic washes over me. I swallow hard, trying to push it away.

"Ah… I don't really know how to explain it, but I haven't been able to stop since the accident," I admit.

"What do you mean?" he asks, his voice softer now.

"It's… well, I try to ignore things, you know? During the day, it doesn't bother me much, but at night, it gets worse. My anxiety goes through the roof, and I can't stop worrying. Sometimes, I wish nighttime didn't exist," I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them.

I glance down at my fingers again. "I've developed this habit of peeling the skin around my nails. And my nails too. It's gotten so bad that my fingers look like they have some sort of contagious disease. No matter how hard I try not to do it, I just… end up doing it anyway."

To my surprise, Dr. Asher immediately pulls out his phone and starts typing furiously.

"What are you doing?" I ask, leaning slightly to peek at his screen.

He doesn't look up. "I'm writing down your symptoms," he says, still typing.

For some reason, I don't stop him. If he can fix this, I'll let him try.

"And I have this defying sense of reality. I just can't sit still. Silence makes me anxious, which is why I always have music on when I'm not talking to anyone. Without my headphones, I go crazy, and this," I say, holding up my trembling hands, "is the result."

"And what else?" he asks, as if he already knows the answer and is just waiting for me to confirm it.

"Even if I manage to fall asleep, all I see are dreams."

"What kind of dreams? Nightmares?" he probes.

"No, not nightmares. But they still haunt me, which is the weird part."

"A good memory from your past?" he asks.

"Maybe, but I can't say for sure because I don't remember my past," I admit. "I'm still trying to figure it out." I lean back in my chair, watching as Dr. Asher's green eyes light up with interest—interest in me, or maybe just in what happened to me.

"Sorry, but are you treating me like some kind of experiment?" I blurt out.

"No," he says calmly. "I just need to check your symptoms from the accident. It might help with further treatment."

"Oh, really? And how exactly?" I snap, feeling my anger rising.

"Miss Kemp, forgetting parts of your memory isn't normal. As a neurologist, I need to understand your mental state. I know you're taking this lightly, but it's more serious than you think. Even if it doesn't bother you, it's affecting the people around you—the people who care about you. They were traumatized because they almost lost you." His words cut deep, sharper than I expect. I hadn't thought about how the accident affected my friends, my sister, or my colleagues. To me, it's just a scratch, but clearly, it's more than that.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, even though I don't really mean it.

"Now, tell me about the dreams," he says.

"They're so vivid, but what terrifies me is that it's always the same place, the same people, the same situation—just in different forms." I try to explain as best I can, though dreams never come fully formed. There's always a missing piece we try to fit together.

"Can you describe it to me?"

"Yeah," I begin. "I see a room—more like a hostel room. I'm with 3 or 4 friends, getting dressed, laughing, and they call me by weird names. Every time I'm there, I ask myself, 'Is this real?' I even pinch myself to check if it's a dream. And every time, it feels so real. The joy, the happiness—I can't explain it. I don't know who those girls are or where the place is, but when I'm with them, I feel so happy."

"What happens next?" he asks, leaning forward slightly.

"The weirdest part is that every time, we're getting ready to meet someone—my lover, I think—but I always forget his name by the end of the dream." I glance at him, noticing how intently he's listening.

"Do you ever meet him?" he asks.

"Yeah. I see him from afar. It doesn't matter if we're close or not—he never acknowledges me. No matter what I do or say, he acts like I don't exist. I try to talk to him, but he never replies. I cry my eyes out just for the chance to share a moment with him." My voice cracks as I finish. Something about this dream feels wrong, or maybe something is wrong with me. The version of me in the dream is so unlike who I am—someone who'd cry for mere attention.

I stop there, looking at Dr. Asher.

"That's it," I say.

"That's it?" he asks, his brow furrowed.

"Yeah." I nod.

"What happens next? Does he ever notice you?"

"No, he never does. And I get so depressed over it. The next day, it's the same thing all over again," I say with a resigned shrug.

"That's... difficult. I—" He starts to respond, but I cut him off.

"My cider's finished. I should get going—it's late," I say, checking my watch and standing up.

"I can drop you, if you don't mind," he offers, standing too.

I hesitate. Why would he offer to drop me? I'm just a patient. If it weren't for therapy, I might have thought he was in love with me, judging by the way he looks at me.

"No need. I live two blocks away," I say.

As I turn to leave, he adds, "We can walk there." His eagerness surprises me, but I can't ignore him like the guy in my dreams ignores me.

"Fine," I reply, giving in.

____

"How's work going?" he asks.

"Not so easy, but yeah, I'm trying to live with it now," I reply.

"So, how does he look? The guy from your dreams?" he asks, stuttering as we walk toward my apartment.

"Well, come to think of it, he has this youthful face. So innocent, as if he's an angel, but it's hard to say because he doesn't actually act like one," I say, trying to make light of it.

"And what do you think of him?" he asks.

"Well, when it's all over, when I wake up in the morning, the sadness washes over me. I get disappointed so much that it was just a dream. A part of me wishes it was all real, that I was really there. But then again, I curse the guy the whole day for acting like a literal jerk," I say, making an annoyed face.

"Have you considered discussing all this with anyone?" he asks.

"I tried. But Lily said she has too much to deal with right now. She doesn't have time for all this. You know, Lily and I have been falling out recently. We don't get along that well these days. I'm actually considering moving out since I think I'm just invading her privacy and her space," I explain, my hands stuffed in my coat pockets. The streets are cold, but people are still walking around.

"How about you?" I ask, even though I know I shouldn't ask him anything personal. It feels irrelevant, but he answers immediately.

"I live alone," he says.

"That's cool. Living alone," I reply.

"I used to live in the countryside. I moved out when Lily did, though she moved out too late. But by then, I was almost 20," I adds.

"My mom was Chinese," he says, his head hanging low.

"Was?" I know it's a stupid and thoughtless question to ask, considering his mother is probably dead. But sometimes, I speak before I realize what I'm saying.

"She killed herself," he says.A cold breeze passes through me, and I feel like the ground is no longer beneath my feet. Bringing this up must be painful, and I feel stupid.

"I'm so sorry," I say, trying to apologize so he won't feel too down.

"She was schizophrenic," he says, his voice quieter.

"What was her name?" I ask.

"Yujing," he replies.

"That's a pretty name. That means you must have a Chinese name as well?" I say, looking at him with sparkly eyes, eager to hear his other name.

"It's Huang Jun," he replies, a little shy, his gaze dropping to the ground.

I can't help but chuckle. "Jun, like a month?"

"Yeah, by English pronunciation, but in Chinese, it means handsome or talented," he says, almost proudly, a subtle smile tugging at his lips.

"Your mother must be very smart to give you such a name," I say, genuinely impressed.

"So, basically, my mom used to say I should follow the Chinese culture, stay at home with her and my dad, because I was their only child. But after that incident, I moved out," he continues, his voice heavy with emotion. It's clear he loved his mother deeply.

"I just wish I didn't have to suffer the loss of a loved one," I say.

He nods quietly.

"Here," I say, stopping in front of my building.

"Oh, we're already here," he replies.

"Yeah, told you, it's only two blocks away," I say, chuckling. I can see him smile a little too.

I can't bring myself to say goodbye to him. The nights are usually the worst. They were never like this before, but they are now.

"I guess I'll see you at the next session," he says.

"Yeah, I guess so too."

"Good night, then. Take care," he says.

For some reason, I want to shout at him. Not just him, but everyone who leaves me alone to deal with all these strange things. I feel like shouting at them, asking them not to leave me alone. It's too scary. My stomach tightens, and I feel nauseated by the thought of going inside and facing those voices, those sounds, and that feeling.