Clash with Subconscious Phantoms

Her wet hair fell into her face, her dilated pupils darting around the room as her rapid pulse throbbed in her throat. She sat on the bed, terrified and exhausted. Suddenly, her rapid breathing turned into sobs, the intense, unstoppable kind of crying she’d been holding in for far too long.

“Why do you keep doing this to me? Why won’t you leave me alone?” she whispered between sobs. “I miss you so much!”

Her dad had died three years ago, but lately, she’d been dreaming about him every night. And they weren’t the peaceful dreams where she’d see him at rest. No, they were nightmares where the past and present blended into a strange spectre that wouldn’t let her sleep. Memories, apparitions, horrific visions… she no longer knew what was real.

She tried to fight it, attending therapy sessions where her therapist kept repeating that it was all just part of the grieving process. But Emily was sure this wasn’t normal anymore. She was afraid to sleep because every night, her own mind became a relentless enemy, torturing her with constant reminders of what she’d long since lost.

When she finally calmed down, and the horrors seemed to fade away, she decided to enjoy a beautiful Saturday. She went outside; the sun warmed her, and a gentle breeze played with her hair. But the peace in her mind was short-lived.

Emily stood at the edge of the sidewalk, nervously pressing the button at the crosswalk as if somehow pressing it harder would magically speed up the light’s change. It felt like a metaphor for her life – press hard enough, and maybe things would start happening faster. Of course, they wouldn’t.

“Come on, change already,” she muttered to herself, her eyes wandering around the surroundings. Suddenly, they froze on a figure across the street. Her breath caught.

“No… not again,” she whispered. The man standing there with his arms crossed looked eerily familiar. In fact, he was not just familiar – he looked like… her dad.

“Damn, now I’m hallucinating in broad daylight,” she sighed, rubbing her eyes quickly. When she opened them again, the man was still there. He was looking directly at her.

The light finally changed to green, and even though she didn’t want to, Emily felt compelled by some strange force. She crossed to the other side of the street, moving closer to him as if something deep inside was pulling her toward him.

“Excuse me, but… do we know each other?” she asked hesitantly when she stood right before him.

The man lifted his head, and his lips curled into a faint smile. “I have the feeling we do,” he replied calmly. His voice was deep, and it sounded… incredibly familiar. Emily froze.

“This… this can’t be,” she mumbled, studying his face. Those eyes, that nose, that smile. “You look… like my father.”

The man chuckled, which paradoxically made her even more uneasy. “No, I’m not your dad, but I know who you’re thinking of.”

Emily scratched her head, feeling a mix of confusion and irritation. “This is how horror movies start, right? I know how it goes – a stranger shows up, and within an hour, I’m dead in some abandoned cabin,” she quipped, using humour as her only defence against the panic.

The man smiled at her again, this time more kindly. “Do I really look that scary?” he asked, amused.

“No, you actually look a lot like my dad, which is weird because he’s been dead for three years,” Emily replied with a slight smirk. “But seriously, who are you?”

“I’m… let’s say, a manifestation of memories,” the man said. “I can look like anyone you’ve known and choose someone who meant something to you.”

Emily stared at him with her mouth open. “Great, so you’re basically Freud’s dream come to life,” she muttered.

“Maybe,” the man nodded. “But before you run off, I have a piece of advice for you.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “If you start quoting some deep life mantra, I swear, I’m out.”

The man chuckled. “Don’t be so quick. It’s simple—sometimes, returning to what’s hurting you is important, even if it stings. Because the past never disappears just because you stop thinking about it.”

Emily smirked. “Great. Another philosopher on a mission,” she muttered sarcastically. But deep inside, something stirred. Was he right? Maybe. Was this a sign that she should revisit her unresolved issues with her father?

“So what, am I supposed to spend my evening soul-searching and having a heart-to-heart with myself?” she finally asked.

“That’s up to you,” the man said, standing up to leave. “Just remember, memories can guide you toward healing if you give them the space.”

Emily took a deep breath. When she turned around, the man was gone.

“Well, perfect. My therapist isn’t going to believe this for a million years—she’ll think I’ve gone mad,” she sighed and continued walking.

Emily glanced around one last time, half-expecting the man to jump out from behind some corner with another dose of life wisdom. But as it seemed, he had vanished for good—along with any hope of this day being ordinary—she sighed and walked further down the street.

“Great. I’m officially crazy,” she muttered under her breath, nervously glancing around to see if any passersby had overheard her internal monologue.

The day had started as a normal, peaceful Saturday. If someone had told her that morning, she’d end up in a conversation with someone who looked like her dead father, giving her spiritual advice; she would’ve laughed and gone back to bed. But no, she had to be the one who attracted weird situations like a magnet.

“Maybe I should take a break from all those spiritual books,” she thought with a smirk as she walked toward the nearest café. “Maybe it’s a sign I’ve cleansed my chakras too much.”

The café was full of people, everyone engrossed in their laptops and phones. Emily ordered her usual latte and found a spot by the window, letting her thoughts wander. She replayed the scene with the man over and over again. Was he real? Or was it just her overloaded subconscious playing some weird game on her?

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t invite anyone for a reunion with my memories,” she muttered, stirring her drink.

Suddenly, she recalled one of the last pieces of advice her therapist had given her. Something about how grief can manifest in all sorts of ways and that people have to go through all the stages before reaching that famous phase called “acceptance.”

“Yeah, sure,” she grumbled to herself. “But nobody told me that acceptance would look like my father’s human form following me around town.”

She began to imagine how she would tell her therapist about this. “And then the image of my dead dad just showed up out of nowhere and gave me life advice. Yep, I think I’m ready for my next session.”

In the meantime, she sat back in her chair, her latte cooling off, and she started imagining alternative scenarios in her head.

What if the man reappeared? What if he told her she had superpowers? Or was he actually a messenger from another world, here to tell her she had to save humanity?

“Well, that would probably take more than a latte,” she chuckled. “But if he had a voucher for free therapy, I might consider it.”

Suddenly, a final thought struck her—the man had disappeared, but his words still echoed in her mind. Maybe there was something to it. Perhaps she really did need to reconcile with her past, not by avoiding it, but by accepting it.

“But how?” she asked herself, taking the last sip of her coffee and standing up. “Lots of advice, not enough instructions.”

As she left the café and stepped onto the street, she paused for a moment. She looked back at the spot where she had spoken to the mysterious man, but of course, no one was there.

“Well, Em,” she muttered softly, “if this Saturday has taught me anything, it’s that I should probably start drinking something stronger than coffee.”

“Poor Emily,” she recalled her mother’s words as she crossed the street. “Always hiding her pain behind humour and sarcasm, as if she always needed to be impossibly strong and avoid showing any signs of weakness. Like the world expected her to keep smiling no matter how broken she felt inside.”

She remembered hearing that at the funeral, where, through tears and her own suffering, she had tried to cheer everyone up with humour—only to turn the whole thing into a fiasco. Her mother had excused Emily’s behaviour, knowing how much she was hurting.

But now, as she thought about it, the man had given her something she hadn’t realised. Maybe it wasn’t about looking back with guilt or sadness. Maybe he was right when he said that memories can lead to healing—if you give them the space.

“That’s nice and all, but where do you find that space?” she chuckled. “It’s not like a parking spot you can just stumble upon on the street, right?”

But it wasn’t just about space, she realised. It was about acceptance. About allowing herself to be weak when she needed to be. About stopping the endless running from what hurt her and instead facing it head-on. After all, if she was going to heal, she had to start by stopping the pretence that everything was okay.

She stopped by a flower display and gazed at the bright colours. Suddenly, it clicked.

“Maybe it’s about realising that pain has its place,” she murmured to herself. “Maybe I’ve been denying myself the chance to feel for so long that it’s all piled up and started haunting me in my dreams.”

She took a deep breath and, for the first time in a long while, allowed herself to think about those old memories of her father. The times they walked in the park together, how he taught her to ride a bike, and how he always told her that humour was the best thing to have when the world threw obstacles in your way.

“But maybe I don’t need to laugh all the time,” she whispered to herself. “Maybe sometimes it’s okay to just… be.”

And in that moment, everything started to make sense. Maybe the man wasn’t just a ghost from the past or a random stranger trying to spook her. Maybe it was her own subconscious finally telling her what she needed to hear—that she didn’t always have to be strong. That weakness wasn’t a failure, and that sadness could be just as natural as joy.

“Alright then, Mr. Memory,” she smiled to herself, looking up at the sky. “Thanks for the advice. And now I think I really could use something stronger than coffee.”

And though the world around her spun as quickly and chaotically as before, Emily felt a sudden calmness. Maybe she wasn’t completely okay, but she was on the right path. And that was more than she had expected.

With this feeling in her heart, she turned and headed home, where another day of challenges awaited her—but this time, knowing she didn’t have to face them all with a smile on her face and sarcasm up her sleeve.

Author's note: Sometimes, it’s perfectly okay not to be strong all the time. Accepting that even weakness has its place can be the most natural way to move forward.