We were perfect together. From the moment I met her, it felt like we were meant to be. She loved me just as deeply as I loved her. Every day with her felt like a dream—one of those rare, beautiful dreams you never want to wake up from. We were inseparable, soulmates bound by love, and nothing could come between us. It wasn't long before we decided to get married. I still remember the joy on her face that day—she was glowing, and in that moment, I knew I'd found my forever.
Three years into our marriage, we were blessed with the greatest gift—a baby girl. Our daughter, our princess, the light of our lives, came into the world and made everything feel complete. Our little family felt like something out of a storybook. We spent our days wrapped in love and laughter, watching our daughter grow. Life felt perfect—simple, happy, and full of meaning.
But one night, out of nowhere, I felt a sharp pain in my head. Everything around me blurred, and before I knew it, I blacked out. I don't know how much time passed, but when I finally opened my eyes, something felt wrong. I was in a hospital room, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. There were doctors, my siblings—now with kids of their own—and my mother, who looked much older than I remembered.
Panic set in as I tried to piece everything together. Where was my wife? Where was my daughter? I frantically searched the room for them, but they weren't there. It hit me like a wave—hard and unforgiving. The life I'd been living, the love I'd felt, the family we'd built together... it was all in my mind. I had been in a coma, lost in a dream for what felt like a lifetime, while years had passed by in reality.
My family, my wife, my little girl—they never existed. Every moment, every memory that I cherished, was nothing more than a figment of my imagination. The perfect life I thought I had lived was gone in an instant, and I was left alone in the stark reality of a life that had moved on without me.
It's a strange, haunting emptiness when the people you loved the most never even existed.
