Regret visits you near your deathbed, as you reminisce about the happy memories you've experienced and reflect on the actions you wish you had taken instead. Even after a person's heart stops beating, their brain can remain active for up to seven minutes after death. Those final seven minutes of life are said to be a condensed replay of one's entire existence. It's a brief, final chapter that everyone will experience.
From the first minute to the seventh, it will show you the day you were born—your arrival at the hospital, the doctor's hands, your mother, and your father. The brain records every single event it witnesses. It will reveal your happiest moments, beautiful childhood memories with friends and siblings. The first time you did something that made you genuinely happy. Small, pleasant fragments of joy.
Then come the memories of your entire love life—from your first love to your last. All your "firsts." The moments of sorrow and solitude. The times you felt truly alone, overwhelmed by grief. And the miracles you never expected—subtle yet profound, like the butterfly effect. With all the memories of your life laid before you, you will judge yourself. You'll come to know whether you've lived a good or a bad life, whether you've done good deeds or hurt others.
Death is inevitable, and this is the ultimate conclusion to our life story.
However, my story is completely different.
I don't remember anything from my childhood—brain fog has blurred the pieces of my past and corrupted the essence of my life. Sorrow, loneliness, betrayal, anger, and regret—those are the only companions I've known. I can't recall any happy memories. Nothing that feels worthy of being treasured.
In short, I'm a living person who feels like a dead one.
People say that reading novels or writing stories is just a waste of time, a mere hobby. But this "hobby" is the only thing that ever made me feel alive. It isn't just a pastime—it's my only way to escape a reality I'm not ready to face, and to create the scenarios I've longed to experience throughout my life.
At the age of thirteen, I discovered my talent for writing. I began imagining vivid worlds in my mind and used that gift in school, joining writing contests. I even set a goal for myself: to finish a book and have it published by a well-known publisher.
But that dream now feels like a fleeting phase of my teenage years.
As I grew older, life introduced me to a wave of new experiences. I made new friends in high school and college, faced my first love, endured my first heartbreak, and continued to live through stretches of deep sadness.
All these moments chipped away at the passion I once held so dearly. Like a bubble, it vanished—leaving me unsure of what I want, or what I'm even meant to do.
When I turned twenty-two, everything I thought I knew at eighteen felt like it didn't matter anymore. The plans I made, the things I believed—they all changed. It was like the person I used to be didn't fit who I was becoming.
I felt scared to face the reality of growing up. I didn't know what my future would look like, and my mind was filled with so many thoughts. But somehow, that fear brought my passion for writing back. It became my comfort—like a quiet place where I could share the things I couldn't say out loud.
"The Worst Time to be Alive" [TWTA] is the first book I've completed in all my years of writing. The story follows a young lady who struggles with suicidal thoughts after being abused by her family and died alone without having to rely to anyone.
Some of my friends have asked why I chose to write such an angsty genre. The only answer I could give was, "I don't know." And honestly, I still don't. Maybe it's because of the psychological and traumatic experiences I've been through. Maybe that's why I made the female lead suffer, too.
I know. It sounds heavy. Maybe even dark. But can you really blame me?
After I was diagnosed with leukemia, regret and guilt began to cloud my mind. Thoughts of sonder started to creep in—making me wonder: if the character I wrote were real, how much pain did I cause by making her suffer? Did she, like me, hope for a happy ending?
Maybe I'm just being delusional, trying to make sense of my life in this state. But I wonder… does being an empath give you sonder thoughts? Does it allow you to feel for a fictional character so deeply it becomes real in your heart?
If reincarnation and living in a different timeline were real, would it be possible to exist in the world I created?
Regression and transgression are common occurrences in the world of fiction. Lost souls are often given another chance—to live the life they longed for through someone else.
But if it were real, I wouldn't want to become part of the story. I'd want to witness the scenarios I wrote—tragic and raw—as their author. Just watching from the edge of the corner, knowing each tear and silence was born from me.