Part III — Orchards That Never Were
- Aug 17
- 1 min read
I didn’t just fall. I plummeted. And when reality refused to cooperate like the unreliable narrator it is, I did what any emotionally possessed adult would do. I built entire worlds.
Whole universes sprouted in my mind. Alternate timelines. Rewritten destinies.
Orchards of moments that never happened but felt real enough to bruise. I told myself it was harmless. A little daydreaming never killed anyone. But then imagination got bold.
Suddenly we were living ten lives at once. Soulmates in medieval taverns, lovers on ships, partners in revolutions, two idiots stealing kisses under streetlights we never stood beneath.
I kept choosing the version of us that felt gentler than the truth.
Safer. Sweeter. Mine.
But fantasies have sharp edges. And the more I wandered those invented worlds, the more reality started knocking. Loudly. Rudely. Asking me to come back.
Turns out imagination is fun until you can’t tell whether your heart is grieving something real or something you only dreamed into existence.