seven;
when i dream.

✱ ✱ ✱

WHEN I DREAM about what a perfect world looks like, a whirlwind of different possibilities graced my mind. I would dream about graduating high school and getting to fulfill my ambitions at Juilliard. I dreamt about living a life overflowing with a passion for music, being able to play in the best symphonies and orchestras, something I'd wanted ever since I was little. I always liked to believe that whatever you put your energy towards in life, the universe would eventually return it back to you; that whatever you gave you would soon receive.

And so, I worked to turn my dreams into reality. I turned all my attention and energy to the things I thought would bring me the most joy. I spent hours practicing my instrument until my fingers were numb, my shoulders bruised and my feet sore. I gave my everything into playing the violin, knowing that practice made perfect, and that if I set my mind to something I would soon see the rewards.

This type of mentality was how I faced everything in my life. My schoolwork was only unmanageable if I didn't work to find a way to succeed. My family only brought me down when I didn't try and lift them up and show them love. My friends, my problems, even my future all existed accordingly to the way I had hoped for. I felt in control of my whole life, and I thought that was what living was.

But then when Peter came along, all of that changed. The one thing I couldn't control were the feelings I had bubbling up inside of me every time his name appeared on my phone, or he took my hand, or he whispered a goodbye after each date. He had spun my entire life around and left me completely blindsided, breathless and craving more.

I realized that a perfect world was one where there was a little bit of uncertainty laced with exhilaration, which was exactly what Peter brought me. A perfect world was one with him in it.

That world came crashing down when he left. It was another thing I had no control over, and it brought nothing but despair into my heart. Seeing him walk away hurt me, but it hurt even more to know that I was the one that pushed him out. Maybe I was right. Maybe I was wrong. All I knew was that I hurt not just myself, but the boy I loved.

These thoughts were scattered throughout my mind as I stood on the roof of my apartment building, having climbed up the ladder off of my fire escape. Standing in the same place where I first fell for him was a bittersweet moment; a rich nostalgia and a sharp regret coated my heart.

The cold air nipped at my nose, and I shivered against the breeze, nothing to warm me up other than myself. I was alone, feeling like a simple speck of material against the out stretching New York skyline, a smudge against a canvas of artificial stars. Days and days had passed, and nothing seemed to be able to ease the numbness I felt in my heart.

The world around me seemed slow, like I was stuck, frozen in time, watching as everything moved right in front of my eyes at a deliberate pace. I wanted him back, but my heart was torn, continuing to bleed out and I didn't know how to mend it. I had ignored his calls, brushed off his text messages, even though all I wanted to do was go running back to him.

It took every ounce of my self control not to. No matter how much I wanted to, no matter how strong the desire to forget how he made me feel, no matter the amount of times he made me feel like I was on cloud nine.

I was torturing myself from staying away from him while convincing myself it was all for my own benefit. The worst heartbreak was disguised as the greater good; part of it caused by him, yet most of the guilt somehow fell heavy on my shoulders.

I now dreamed of a world where I hadn't loved him, because then maybe this would all be easier.

Footsteps sounded from a few feet away from me, as if someone was climbing the ladder that led to this rooftop. Stupidly, my heart sped up, and I hoped that it would be him. It was foolish how easily my mind could easily forget what I had just been telling myself.

However, a small head of dirty blonde hair poked up over the edge of the roof, deeply innocent eyes staring at me.

"Liam, what are you doing up here?" I immediately snapped out of my daze, rushing over to my younger brother, knowing that one misstep could cause an unimaginable accident to occur.

"Mama said I could stay up late tonight and so I wanted you to watch cartoons with me," The little boy answered as I lifted his small body up and onto the roof. I propped him on my hip, his tiny legs wrapping around my waist and his arms tightly holding onto my shoulders. His gaze fell onto the New York skyline, and a little woah escaped his lips. "This is so cool! I didn't know this was here!"

I smiled. "It is, isn't it? It's like a little hideaway from everything else."

"Like your secret lair?" He asked in wonder, and I nodded. He pointed at the buildings. "I can come up here and spy on the evil villains! And I bet you can see Spider-Man swing from tower to tower from up here!"

I shook my head at his youthful enthusiasm, admiring his constant sense of amazement. I longed to share the same joy my younger brother always had. "I bet you could."

Liam looked at me, shifting in my arms and pouting his lips a little. As if recognizing the unusual, somber tone of my voice, he whispered. "I'm sorry you're so sad. Boys are stupid!"

"Amen to that," I slightly chuckled at my brother's antics. I gently kissed his forehead, holding him close to me. "I love you, Liam."

"I love you too, sissy."

It was in that moment that I realized that even though not all of my dreams were turning out the way I expected them to, yet that didn't mean they weren't coming true. The thing about getting what you give was true; I had seemed to have given all my love out, and although it wasn't being brought back to me by the person I thought it would be, I saw the love returned to me through the eyes of my little brother.

But I still held onto one particular dream. A dream that all of the heartbreak him and I found ourselves in would just disappear in the blink of an eye.

It was a dream that was tiring.

✱ ✱ ✱

It was day six in that hospital room. Six days since I'd lost my parents. Six days of waiting in anxiety and fear. Six days of her wondering whether or not she was going to die. Six days since her entire world turned upside down.

Six days that Peter was right by her side.

Each day had been painful, but I slowly found myself almost becoming numb to the pain. I expected things to eventually get better, and so part of me just held onto hope that if I persevered long enough, I would eventually see the light at the end of the tunnel. But it was easier said than done, especially when nurses and doctors were constantly reporting bad news and left my room with a discourages frown on their face.

It was hard to hold onto hope.

Peter was knelt by my bed, his knees pressing against the cold, tile floor. His upper body and head were collapsed onto the bed, resting on the sheets right by my body. His left arm was extended, fingers intertwined with mine as he tried to sleep, but I imagined he wasn't comfortable at all. He hadn't been able to rest for days, which is exactly why he peeked up so quickly when the doctor entered the room in the evening.

Everyone was desperate for some sort of silver lining, but the doctor's face gave no indication that things were looking up. Tests had been run, my condition evaluated, and my current stage deliberated. It felt like a never ending process, a game of how many needles they could poke me with and how many medications they could pump into my blood. I just prayed that all of it would be worth it.

I pushed myself off of where I was sitting on the windowsill of the room, wanting to pay attention to whatever the doctor was about to share. I internally begged for it to be something positive. I couldn't handle anything else heavy weighing on my soul.

"Anything come from the tests?" Peter asked, his voice hoarse, probably from having gotten barely any sleep in the past forty-eight hours. He was basically up all hours of the night, unable to stay tranquil with the constant beeping of my heart monitor and the fear of my possible death hanging over his head.

"Yes," The doctor said, and then looked down at his clipboard. He paused and took a deep breath, which made my anxiety crawl. "We were able to assess the stability of her nervous system now that most of her swelling has gone down."

Peter nodded. "And?"

"Well, the good news is that her spinal chord is in good shape. She has some bruising, but nothing extremely serious. No paralysis, thankfully." The doctor informed, pushing his small glasses up his nose.

"That's good, that's really good." Peter let out a sigh of relief. He squeezed my hand. "You hear that, Addie?"

The doctor quickly continued talking before Peter got too excited, though. "However, the nerve damage in her hands is extensive. The bones were crushed in the crash, and although those will eventually heal, nerve damage is something much more complicated."

Peter's eyebrows furrows, and my heart rate picked up, trying to understand the situation. "Okay, but it can fixed, right?"

"There are certain surgeries to correct nerve damage in the hands, but those are typically used for milder cases, and even then, they only have a 40% success rate. Addie's case is much more severe, and there's a possibility that attempting surgery might further the damage and make the results worse." He explained.

I worriedly looked down at my hands, seeing the pale skin perfectly unharmed. Then, I looked back at my body that laid in the bed, and how those hands were completely taped up, one resting beside me and the other one resting in Peter's embrace.

"No, no, that can't happen, we have to at least try," Peter argued, and he looked down at the hand he held, and then to my face. "She's...she's a violinist. It's her entire life, it's her passion. Will she still be able to play?"

The doctor shook his head. "She won't."

And just like that, my back hit the wall behind me, my body suddenly feeling weak, and tears formed on the brim of my eyes. My heart sunk into the pit of my stomach, eyes traveling all over the room and finally landing on my acceptance letter from Juilliard that sat on my bedside table.

It was worthless now.

A small cry escaped my lips, yet it was silent to everyone else in the room. No one else could possibly feel the pain that was coursing through my body at the thought of never being able to play again, and my heart tore in half. All the practicing, all the memories, all the dreams...gone in one instant.

A dream that I was convinced would come true, one that I could always rely on. My one never-ending source of joy and happiness. It was crushed like a piece of glass. I never thought it was so fragile. It was more than broken, it was shattered. Ruptured. Destroyed. It couldn't be fixed, couldn't be put back together.

And another part of my soul was broken with it.