SHOULD WIZARD HIT MOMMY?

“You know the impostor syndrome is real when you stare too long into the abyss and the abyss does not, in fact, stare back at you.”

It began in the evening, though it didn't feel like one. The sky had that endless golden glow that never fades, like time had decided to pause just for me. I was on the football ground next to my house, the same uneven field from childhood, where every stone had a memory and every goalpost leaned slightly to one side.

But something was off.

I was playing the best football of my life.

The ball obeyed me. It curved when I wanted it to, stopped dead at my feet, glided across the grass like it knew where I intended to go before I did. I dribbled past defenders who felt slower, almost unreal. And then I shot.

From far.

Too far.

The ball soared and landed perfectly into the net.

I froze.

I couldn't do that.

Not like this. Not with my left foot.

That's when it hit me: this is a dream.

The realization didn't break the world. It deepened it. Colors sharpened. Sounds became distant, like I was underwater. I dropped the ball and started walking home, my heart racing: not from running, but from awareness.

I went inside and found my mother downstairs. She was exactly as she always is: calm, grounded, real in a way the rest of the dream was not.

We started talking. About nothing and everything. The kind of conversation that drifts without direction, like it has no beginning and no end.

Then I asked her, “Where are my childhood football shoes?”

She looked at me, slightly puzzled, but answered casually, as if it were any other question.

And then something inside me shifted.

An idea. A dangerous one.

I said slowly, “Can you go to my room?”

She frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean go to my room. I want to see something. Maybe you notice me sleeping there,” I said with a laugh.

She hesitated like she does when things drift into the metaphysical, as if those questions carry weight they shouldn't.

“That's not how it works,” she said.

“But what if it is? I know it will work.” I insisted. “Please. Just try.”

There was something desperate in my voice now. Not curiosity: proof. I needed proof.

Reluctantly, she agreed.

She turned and walked toward my room.

I followed her.

The hallway felt longer than usual. The walls stretched slightly, like they were breathing. She entered my room, and for a moment, I stayed outside.

Then she came out.

But something was wrong.

Her clothes had changed.

Completely different.

I stared at her.

“So?” I asked, my voice tight. “Did you wake me up?”

She looked at me, confused: no, not confused. Blank.

“As if nothing had happened.”

A silence fell between us, heavy and unnatural.

Then, casually, she asked, “About your football shoes… Why do you need them?”

My heart skipped.

“How do you know I asked about the shoes?”

Her expression changed.

Slowly.

She looked at me: no, through me: with an intensity that didn't belong to her. It was as if, for a moment, she wasn't just my mother. As if she knew something I wasn't supposed to know.

Something I wasn't supposed to try.

That look: it wasn't anger. It was a warning.

Or worse… recognition.

A cold wave passed through me.

The dream began to collapse: not visually, but emotionally. The warmth drained out of everything. The world felt hollow.

And then:

I woke up.

My room. Dark. Silent.

But the feeling remained.

Quiet. Fear. Loneliness, like I had returned from somewhere I wasn't meant to visit alone.

And shock: because some part of me wasn't sure I had fully come back.

I got up, my throat dry, and walked to the kitchen. The house felt too still. Too real.

I poured myself a glass of water, my hands slightly trembling.

Then I noticed it.

A light was on in one of the rooms.

I froze.

Slowly, I walked toward it.

Each step heavier than the last.

I pushed the door open.

And there she was.

My mother.

Sleeping.

Peacefully.

Exactly as she should be.

I stood there for a long time, staring.

Trying to convince myself that this: this was reality.

But somewhere, deep inside, a thought lingered:

What if the abyss did stare back.



- Nimitt