Brazil, 21st century. This is where the history of Nightmare begins; it's not his real name, but he believes it's the name that best describes him. So why not call him that? When he was 5 years old, Nightmare was already drawing and painting, which made his parents immensely proud.

He took a while to learn to speak, perhaps because during his early and middle childhood, he didn't have much contact with other children. There was no sad or dark reason for this; it just happened that he didn't interact much. His parents weren't strict with him; they were loving, which made the boy feel comfortable and settled. He watched many cartoons and movies from a young age and loved to adventure with them. He had fun drawing and telling stories to his parents, inventing tales, and asking them to read books. There was no doubt that this hobby was his greatest passion.

See how Nightmare's life was; it was a true dream: He had a hobby he loved, the few people he knew were aware of his likes and dislikes, took care of him, and loved him. He was the child, the protected one. In a warm, supported, and happy cocoon. He explored the world through his mind and the stories he saw. He never needed to care about the real world because the fictional one was much more fun, no matter how crazy the story was. And Nightmare was a very creative storyteller and drawer. He took what he learned and reshaped it to his liking. In the imaginary, everything was under his control, and in reality, he didn't have to deal with anything.

Then came daycare, and a piece of the nightmare began: There, he would have to deal with people on his behalf, and he wouldn't have any control. At school, everyone was the same, and many, there were no children who received more attention than others. Not only that, but they didn't know Nightmare's likes and dislikes; the little boy would have to learn to explain himself to others.

But when you're a child, not only do you not fully understand what you like or dislike because you're still learning, but you also don't feel that you should have to explain to others. Other children should already know.

Then school began, and the real nightmare started: Children are very focused on themselves while being altruistic, and this is something that cannot be changed, as it's not a personality trait but a stage of development. So when Nightmare shared his likes with someone and found out that others thought they were boring or strange, the child's egocentrism made them focus on themselves, and the thought became: No one likes the same things I do, no one plays like I play. This happens to every child, but each child's individuality makes dealing with these thoughts different.

For Nightmare, the thought was: I'm boring. Weird and different. And his imagination took scenes from movies about what happened to boring and different people, about bullying, and that made him start telling his own story in his head. He began to live through things that hadn't happened in his life. He started to fear a bullying that hadn't even happened yet. He tried to focus on his friends' likes instead of his own, fitting into a group by reshaping himself rather than creating one by being himself.

But thinking is different from acting. In his story, Nightmare told a joke he found funny; others would laugh and think he was fun, that it must be great to be his friend. However, in his history, no one laughed at the joke. With this result, Nightmare's story changed: "They didn't laugh, I'm boring. They don't like me." But little boy, you've never heard any of them call you boring or say they don't like you. Why try to deduce and guess what's in others' heads? You're trying to regain control, confusing story with reality.

So you end up alone, already designating yourself as the weird kid in the class, and this becomes your role. You have no friends, not much confidence, and your anxiety screaming about how many things are wrong. You sink because you feel alone, you cry and scream without making a sound because you don't want to be seen as even more weird than you already are. But you didn't want to be this way; why is this your role? Why is he the weird kid in the class?

Nightmare, understand, there is no role in a history; you are the writer who assigns roles in your story, but don't confuse the two. In reality, liking drawings doesn't make you weird because, in fact, there are no labels in real life. Labels only exist in the stories people tell. A young person who practices sports and watches anime would be called a nerd athlete by many, but at what point does the athlete end and the nerd begin? Why should a character be reduced to something? Roles are personas in stories; in reality, there are no labels.

But how can you avoid labeling when everyone around you labels? For example, when Nightmare started showing knowledge in chemistry and getting good grades at school, his parents told him to focus on that career, forgetting that Nightmare loved drawing and writing. How not to think you're weird when no one seems to encourage what you like? How to say there are choices when what you want to choose is dismissed by others?

Nightmare's anxiety prevented him from presenting his work because he formulated in his mind that his role in the story was to be intelligent due to good grades. So if he couldn't explain or made a mistake, he would be going against the role the writer gave him.

But the worst part of being a writer is that you imagine every ending: I'll make a friend, I won't make a friend, someday I'll have my romance story, no girl will ever like me, because I'm too confident I won't study enough, leading to failing the exam and losing the chance to attend the college I wanted. The mind creates a multiverse of climaxes and endings, plot twists after plot twists, so many possibilities that you often get lost in the script and mix one timeline with another. But while you create so many stories that you're no longer able to count, with beginning, middle, and end, your history is still happening. You haven't even left school yet, so why fear marriage? Instead of worrying about a possibility, isn't it better to breathe, act, and deal with the consequences of your choices after you make them?

Instead of imagining all the value a test has on your life, isn't it better to just take the test? I know school and family don't help, acting as if that math test will determine the course of your entire life, acting as if that Portuguese test will decide whether you're a delinquent or not. It's not easy, it's complex, even hard to understand, but breathe. A piece of paper doesn't dictate your future.

But for Nightmare, it wasn't easy. He began to live in fear of facing everything. The boy couldn't sleep at night, spending the nights trying to create the script for the rest of his life. When he woke up, he wasn't tired because his mind immediately went to work, trying to self-spoiler what the next twist and plot would be. The teenager was frustrated, tired, had no peace within his own head, couldn't concentrate on simple tasks, and due to his body growing, he became very clumsy. And when an accident happened, or he was mocked or argued with, in reality, the fear and drama in his mind made Nightmare see everything much more intensely than it actually was.

Nightmare's world had turned into a nightmare, and he had so many scripts in his hand that he didn't know which one would play out in his life. But his insecurity and fear always made him fear the worst possible endings.

One afternoon, Nightmare was alone in his room at home, watching his favorite movie franchise, trying to forget about the upcoming science fair. The boy even turned off the internet on his phone so he wouldn't receive messages from his classmates pressuring him to help with something he didn't care about.

But even while watching what he loved, he couldn't concentrate, only cry, because it seemed he would never be competent or happy. Everyone treated him as if he were a failure, as if he did nothing right. The boy scratched his head, thinking about how he could find a way out when the doorbell rang. His parents had traveled for a few days, so visitors were the last thing the boy expected.

His mind was already trying to read the script of who would be the next character to enter the story. Would it be the mailman? Some package he hadn't heard of? An owl from a school of wizards? His grandparents or a relative came to visit him unexpectedly? A Jehovah's Witness? Oh my God, what if it was a thief? A wanted serial killer? He didn't know how to fight; he would have to face it alone. Maybe he should walk around with a knife up his sleeve so he wouldn't be caught by surprise.

He looked very carefully through the window so the possible assassin wouldn't see him, so he could pretend he wasn't home. However, none of his scripts were correct, as the new historical figure was a little girl, so cute and graceful that Nightmare didn't know how to react. This would calm him a bit if he weren't afraid of children. He always imagined they mocked him, found him weird, thought they were smarter than him, and so on....

The doorbell rang again, and feeling even more pressured but a little safer, the young man opened the door.

"How can I help?"

"Good morning, sir..." In the middle of her sentence, the girl stopped in shock, as if she had seen something extremely out of the ordinary. "... Hihihi, uncle, you're quite strange."

The girl's "innocent" comment left Nightmare speechless. It was the first time that both the story and reality aligned as he feared. He knew he was strange, but being called that out of nowhere, especially by such a small girl, was embarrassing and humiliating. He felt his heart beating harder, like a machine trying to be as productive as possible.

"A-A-Ah... girl... um... you shouldn't do that... it hurts and..."

"I don't care if it hurts, idiot. What do I care if you're miserable?" Again, the girl's acidic comment was like a knife piercing the young man's body, twisting inside him. Right in the heart, strong enough to make him feel a pang. How should he react? Should he curse at the girl? But what if her parents were nearby? He was older; he would be called immature if he started yelling at a child.

The girl then, without asking permission, entered the young man's house, which left him horrified. What would the neighbors think? A girl that age entering his house; they would start spreading rumors. Why did this girl appear out of nowhere? Did he know her and not remember? It couldn't be a magical being coming to find him. More pangs came to his heart. What should he do? His lungs were swelling and hurting; breathing was difficult and painful. So many answers came to his mind, but he couldn't act on any of them because his mind worked much faster than his reaction could keep up with.

"So... aren't you going to do anything?" the girl asked, turned away from him.

"G-G-Girl... you... c-c-can't e-enter..." Then she looked in his direction, with pure contempt and irritation painted on her face. The message was clear: "You're a nuisance."

"Don't you have the courage to respond? SERIOUSLY? YOU'RE NOT GOING TO SAY ANYTHING? I'M INVADING YOUR HOUSE!" The fact that the child started shouting put the young man in even more anxiety. Screaming was the worst thing he had to face; if he couldn't speak when it was quiet, he had no chance when someone was yelling.

Screams are like sonic attacks that humans make with their voices, like a lion's roar, used to assert dominance and control over an opponent, making them submit to their will. Other lions might roar back and have an ego contest, some wiser animals might flee, while others might face it with strategy. But for Nightmare, screams weren't roars; they were like Medusa's petrifying gaze transmuted into sound waves. He had no courage against screams, he was powerless, a failure, an embarrassment.

"S...S......So.........Sorr......So..." No matter how hard he fought, the word wouldn't come out of his mouth, not even a word of submission and humiliation. Another pang.

"Being so afraid of a shout... Kid, you really dramatize everything, don't you? You have a brilliant mind, but no one ever taught you how to channel and tame your creativity. Isn't that right?" The boy had started to feel dizzy, but the girl kept talking. "You must have no peace at any moment in your life, and this drama of yours must have made you think of heavy things... very heavy things. You must hate yourself, be afraid of yourself, be exhausted, alone, and at the same time, because of the countless possibilities your mind creates for a happy ending, you never lose hope. Hihihi, it's actually hilarious; you imagine everything that could happen, always thinking and fearing the worst, but never stopping to think that there's a chance it could work out. This is definitely exhausting and only makes your existence miserable. What a terrible nightmare it must be to have the mindset you have."

Nightmare began to cry, making no sound because he couldn't, his breathing was very fragile, tears streamed down his face. He wanted his mother hugging him and his father helping him, but the memories that came were only of them being disappointed when he said he wanted to be an artist instead of a scientist. Only his father's curses came to mind when the boy would drop things on the floor, as if he were incompetent, incapable of doing anything right. A failure. An embarrassment. A mistake. Stupid. Idiot. And everyone acted as if his reactions didn't carry all this weight. Of course, they didn't; none of these feelings were what his parents felt or wanted to convey, but Nightmare only saw it that way. The worst nightmare. He lost strength in his knees and collapsed to the ground.

"H-H-Help me... I don't... I don't want to feel this way anymore... I'm tired... I just want to sleep... help me... I want to stop imagining... I want to stop thinking... I'm so tired of being so creative."

"Hihihihihihihihi... hihihihihihihihi... hahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA." The laughter started small but grew into a loud guffaw. Lily was unable to contain her excitement and exhilaration, pure ecstasy flowing from the tips of her toes to the strands of her hair. Finally, she found someone who asked for help without her needing to convince them of anything. That human was basically saying that she was his hope and that he wanted to destroy his own creativity. "...yes... yes, YES, YES, AND A THOUSAND TIMES YES. Oh boy, I love you so much." She said, hugging his head. Her love was as true as a reflection in a mirror; the boy didn't understand anything, as trying to comprehend a broken existence is as futile as shouting at a piece of stone.

"...... what....?"

"Boy, you may be a failure, but I will use this failure to fix the world." She released the hug and placed her hands on his cheeks. "Nightmare, The Writer, your despair is your anxiety, and your hope is the end of the virtue of creativity. Don't worry, soon everyone will stop wanting to think outside the box; you will, and everyone will, stop thinking about things they have never seen or felt. Now, I can't hold back; I'm going to give you a little push this time, okay?"

"... How... so?" She smiled at him one last time, with genuine happiness, and then disappeared. Nightmare was confused by what had just happened until he heard someone pounding on the door, another pang in his heart, a sudden shock. He stared at the door, terrified, until he saw shadows of people in the window, and they seemed armed.

He then forgot about the girl he had just seen. All his attention, all his focus, all his script was on the door, as that was his final act, and the curtains had to fall with impact.

A sound of a window breaking, voices. When he realized it, it was night outside, and the lights had gone out. There was no time to understand. Run to the kitchen, boy, they're going to hurt you. Oh no, you're hearing footsteps in the house. They're going from one side to the other, they're going to hurt you. You see their silhouettes in every corner; they really are going to hurt you.

You've thought so many times about this plot that the fact that it was happening froze your legs. Run, Nightmare, run.

They will catch you, it will hurt, you will cry. Fight, Nightmare! Oh no! They got you, there are too many, you're alone, where is everyone? Oh no. Oh no.

The next day, the young man's body was found. Cause of death: Cardiac arrest. Time of death: 11 a.m.

And now, let the curtains close.