“I did,” I said.

She immediately threw a fit. “How could you? You could’ve died on that table because of it!”

I kept my face straight, offering no emotional response. “Because I’m an adult and it was my decision to make. I decided it was worth an attempt, and if you keep judging my decisions, we’re never going to get through the story. That’s why I gave you the drinks.”

“So, as I was saying, I took them up on that experimental method, and it was perfect. There was no pain afterwards, no clinical death, no nausea, nothing.”

“Well, that’s wonderful,” father said. “Why the drinks, though?”

“Because of what came after. On the train, when I was coming here, I had a panic attack for no reason. I felt all those people around me in a completely different way than before,” I said.

“Well, it might just be a side-effect,” father said.

“It might. But it might also have something to do with what happened when I was under. You see, I was completely conscious during the operation, but I couldn’t feel my body. It was like my mind had disconnected from my body. It was beautiful, but I wasn’t alone,” I said.

“What do you mean, you weren’t alone? Love, you’re not making any sense,” mother said.

“I… met someone, if you could call it that. We…” I struggled to find the right words. “I suppose you could say we talked to each other, even though we weren’t really talking, because it was just our minds exchanging thoughts.”

“How does that make any sense, though?” father said. “How could you have talked to another person while not having a body?”

“I wish I knew,” I said.

“Do you think you might have been dreaming?” mother said. “After all, maybe that new method allowed you to dream instead of going completely under.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But he was a Southerner. Seems unlikely to me.”

They shared a smile between themselves, and I could almost see them thinking about how well they’d raised me.

“Jordan, love, while it sounds lovely, you did spend your last six years down there. You’ve been exposed to Southerners long enough that you might’ve dreamt one up,” mother said.

“I don’t know, that’s all I can tell you,” I said.

“How did you even know he was a Southerner?” father asked.

“I really don’t know. But he felt Southern, and above all, he felt real. He had a name and everything,” I said.

“What was his name?” father said. “Just curious.”

“Aaron,” I said. “Doesn’t sound Northern, does it?”

“No, you’re right, it doesn’t. Still, I think you might’ve just been dreaming,” he said. “If the doctors didn’t see anything, and you couldn’t find him afterwards-“

“I tried. Trust me, I tried. That’s why I didn’t want to come up here,” I said.

“Well, if you couldn’t, he might just be a figment of your imagination after all.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said. “But it didn’t feel that way.”

“You’ve always been a good dreamer, love,” mother said. “Maybe it was just a very vivid dream.”

“Yes, but this didn’t feel like a dream,” I said, exasperated from having to explain the same thing multiple times.

“I think you should go rest some more,” mother said. “Your brain is slightly messed up to start with, and I think you need the rest. Maybe it’ll clear out after some time.”

Begrudgingly, I finished my beer and went back upstairs. Why didn’t they trust me? Why didn’t anyone trust me? Aaron was real, damn him. I was sure of it. What was I supposed to do to convince anyone that he was real?

I opened the book to calm myself down, and it was surprisingly effective, as I felt myself slowly conk out, overwhelmed by everything that had happened, and the prospect of an actual comfortable bed appealing to my brain, which hadn’t had a comfortable night of sleep for quite a while. I turned the lights off and, enjoying the limited comfort of my old bed, passed out.

I felt conscious again, and I was walking down a sunny street. Something didn’t add up, and I quickly concluded that I was dreaming. As I was walking, I recognised the streets around me as being those of London, and the setting spread itself around me, creating a sense of familiarity. As I looked around to enjoy the sight of London bathed in sunlight, trying to figure out why I was dreaming about it, I forgot to look ahead, and collided with a man.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“You’re absolutely fine,” he said. “The blame is equally on me, after all, I wasn’t looking straight either.”

He was young, roughly my age. His frame was slender, but tall, creating an almost comical presence, and the first thing that came to mind was imagining him drunk. I was sure I had never met him, but his red-bearded face and demeanour made me wonder.

“Have I met you before?” I asked, deep inside me already expecting the answer to be completely unexpected.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Well, you have now. I’m Aaron.”

“Jordan,” I said, and faked a smile, while deep down I was terrified. Aaron. Come to think of it, the demeanour matched exactly. It seemed like him, and he looked exactly how someone with that name and stance would look. Which, after all, was obvious, because it was my dream.

The dream ended there and then, as I woke up, the diffuse light of the morning filling my room. The house was empty, but on my old desk there was a cup of coffee with a note.

*This is for you. We’re both at work, but entertain yourself however you want, and please, rest as much as you can. Love, mam.* How sweet of her.

The day went by in absolute calmness, something I didn’t understand how it could happen. Then again, I could hardly understand anything these days. I spent most of the day reading my book and eating, with a nap thrown into it all. While having absolutely zero productivity was a strange feeling, I didn’t really complain, and not even when my parents came home did something go awry.

That all changed when the Sun set, and the city turned dark, but it also suddenly turned busy. Even though it was a Friday, something seemed off. It usually didn’t get this busy this early.

“Dad? Is there something on tonight?” I shouted out of my room.

“Of course there is, love. The football’s on. Come down, watch the game with me,” he said.

“Blue or red?” I asked.

“Red,” he said.

Football. All of the people that were going down the streets. Tens of thousands of them, all wanting to see the lads play. And in my head, I heard them all. Each and every one of them, I heard their drunk thoughts, already preparing themselves to sing and shout for just under two hours. They were happy, for the most part.

But there were so many of them. Something wasn’t right. I’d lived within earshot of those two stadia for 18 years, and not once did something like this happen. This was something to do with that operation. They’d done something to me, and I was having panic attacks and hallucinations because of it. As all of the thoughts raced in my head, I fell down on the floor of my room and hyperventilated, thinking only how to make it stop.