The rain had just started to fall, tapping a syncopated rhythm against the windows of the Blue Lantern Café.
Inside, the air was thick with the aroma of coffee and the low hum of conversation. At a corner table, three friends sat, their faces lit by the soft glow of a hanging lamp.
Eli, an unemployed waiter, gazed at the rain with a distant look in his eyes. His hair was unkempt, and his clothes hung loosely, as if he’d forgotten to care about such things.
Next to him sat Mira, a poet whose notebooks overflowed with verses about love and loss and the ineffable.
Across from them was Samir, a medical student with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, who seemed to carry the weight of the world in the set of his jaw.
Mira sipped her tea and broke the silence. “Eli, you haven’t said a word since we got here. What’s on your mind?”
Eli blinked, as if waking from a dream. “Do you ever wonder if any of this is real?” he asked softly.
Samir rolled his eyes. “Not this again.”
But Mira leaned forward, curiosity flickering in her gaze. “What do you mean?” This was Eli’s usual conversation starter and she often just went with it because it made him happy.
Eli’s fingers traced circles on the table. “I mean… how do I know you’re not just figments of my imagination? Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe you’re all illusions. Maybe I’m the only real thing, and everything else is just… a projection.”
Samir snorted. “Solipsism. That’s what you’re talking about. It’s a philosophical dead end, Eli. There’s no evidence for it. The world exists whether you believe in it or not.”
Mira smiled gently. “But how can you be so sure, Samir? Maybe Eli’s onto something. Maybe reality is more fluid than we think.”
Eli’s eyes shone with gratitude. “I meditate, you know. Hours every day. Sometimes I feel myself dissolving, like I’m not even here. And then I wonder-what if I’m not? What if I’m just a soul passing through, reincarnating again and again, and none of this is real?”
Samir leaned back, folding his arms. “Or maybe you’re just bored and unemployed, and your mind is playing tricks on you.”
Mira shot him a look. “Be kind, Samir.”
He shrugged. “I’m just saying. There’s no grand design, no cosmic joke. We’re biological machines, that’s all.”
Mira shook her head. “I don’t believe that. I feel the touch of something greater, something divine. When I write poetry, it’s like I’m channeling a higher power. I can’t explain it, but I know it’s real.”
Eli looked at her, hope flickering in his eyes. “How do you know? How do you prove it?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know if I can. But I feel it. Isn’t that enough?”
Samir scoffed. “Feelings aren’t facts. Science is the only way to know anything for sure.”
Eli sighed. “But science can’t explain consciousness. It can’t explain why I feel like I’m the only one here.”
Samir leaned forward, his voice low. “You want proof that we’re real? Fine. Pinch me.”
Eli raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Pinch me,” Samir repeated. “If I react, if I feel pain, doesn’t that prove I’m real?”
Eli hesitated, then reached across the table and pinched Samir’s arm. Samir yelped and jerked away.
“See?” he said, rubbing his arm. “Real pain. Real person.”
Eli shook his head. “Or maybe I just imagined your reaction. Maybe I wanted you to react, so you did.”
Samir groaned. “This is pointless.”
Mira smiled. “Maybe not. Maybe the point isn’t to prove anything, but to experience it. To trust.”
Eli looked at her, his eyes searching. “But how do I trust something I can’t prove?”
She reached across the table and took his hand. Her touch was warm and gentle. “Because sometimes faith is all we have.”
Samir snorted. “Faith is a crutch.”
Mira shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s a beautiful one.”
Eli closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her hand. For a moment, the world felt solid, real. But then doubt crept in again.
“What if you’re just a dream?” he whispered.
Mira squeezed his hand. “Then let’s make it a good one.”
The rain intensified, drumming against the windows like a thousand tiny fingers. The café grew quieter as people left, until only the three friends remained.
Samir checked his watch. “I have to get back to the hospital soon. Night shift.”
Eli looked at him. “Do you ever wonder, when you’re with your patients, if they’re real? Or if you’re just playing a part in someone else’s dream?”
Samir shook his head. “No. I see suffering, Eli. Real suffering. Real blood, real pain. You can’t fake that.”
Mira leaned back, her eyes distant. “But what if suffering is just a lesson? What if we’re here to learn something, before we move on?”
Eli nodded. “That’s what I believe. Reincarnation. We keep coming back, learning new lessons each time.”
Samir rolled his eyes. “Or maybe we just die, and that’s it.”
Mira smiled sadly. “That’s a bleak way to live.”
He shrugged. “It’s honest.”
Eli looked at him, desperation in his eyes. “But how do you know? How can you be sure?”
Samir hesitated. “I can’t. Not really. But I trust what I see, what I can measure. That’s enough for me.”
Mira looked at Eli. “What would it take for you to believe we’re real?”
He thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Something undeniable. Something I can’t explain away.”
She smiled. “Like love?”
He blushed. “Maybe.”
Samir stood up, gathering his things. “I have to go. Try not to get lost in your own head, Eli.”
Eli watched him leave, then turned to Mira. “Do you think he’s real?”
She laughed. “As real as you or me.”
He smiled. “That’s not saying much.”
She leaned in, her voice soft. “What if reality is a poem, Eli? What if it’s not meant to be understood, but felt?”
He considered this. “Maybe. But I want to know. I want to be sure.”
She squeezed his hand again. “Maybe certainty is overrated.”
The days passed. The rain stopped, and the city bloomed with the scent of wet earth and new beginnings. Eli spent his days wandering the streets, lost in thought. He meditated for hours, seeking answers in the silence.
One evening, he found himself at the park, watching the sunset. The sky was a riot of colors, gold and crimson and violet. Mira found him there, her notebook in hand.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, sitting beside him.
He nodded. “But is it real?”
She smiled. “Does it matter?”
He looked at her. “It matters to me.”
She opened her notebook and read aloud:
“We are the dreamers and the dreamed,
The poets and the poems,
The question and the answer,
The seeker and the sought.”
He closed his eyes, letting her words wash over him. For a moment, he felt at peace.
“Do you ever doubt?” he asked.
She nodded. “All the time. But then I remember-I’m here. I’m alive. I feel. That’s enough.”
He looked at her, searching her face for answers. “But what if it’s all an illusion?”
She smiled. “Then let’s make it a beautiful one.”
Weeks passed. Samir grew busier at the hospital, his texts growing shorter, more abrupt. Mira continued to write, her poems growing darker, more introspective. Eli drifted, caught between worlds.
One night, he invited them both to his apartment. The room was small and cluttered, filled with books and candles and the faint scent of incense.
They sat in a circle on the floor, a candle flickering between them.
“I want to try something,” Eli said. “A meditation. Together.”
Samir rolled his eyes, but Mira nodded eagerly.
Eli closed his eyes. “Focus on your breath. Feel the air moving in and out. Let your thoughts drift away.”
They sat in silence, the candle casting dancing shadows on the walls.
Eli spoke softly. “Now, imagine we’re all connected. That there’s no separation between us. That we’re all part of the same consciousness.”
Mira smiled, her eyes closed. Samir shifted uncomfortably.
Eli continued. “Now, open your eyes and look at each other. Really look. See the person in front of you. See their hopes, their fears, their dreams.”
They opened their eyes, gazing at each other in the flickering candlelight.
Eli looked at Samir. “I see your doubt. Your need for certainty. Your fear of being wrong.”
Samir looked away, uncomfortable.
Eli turned to Mira. “I see your faith. Your longing for connection. Your belief in something greater.”
She smiled, tears in her eyes.
Eli looked at them both. “And I see myself. Lost, searching, desperate to know what’s real.”
They sat in silence, the candle burning low.
Finally, Samir spoke. “Maybe we’ll never know for sure. Maybe that’s the point.”
Mira nodded. “Maybe the search is what makes us real.”
Eli smiled, a weight lifting from his shoulders. “Maybe you’re right.”
The candle burned out, leaving them in darkness. But in that darkness, Eli felt a new sense of peace. He didn’t have all the answers, but he had his friends. He had their laughter, their arguments, their love.
Maybe that was enough.
Months passed. Eli found a new job, waiting tables at a different café. Samir graduated from medical school, his cynicism tempered by compassion. Mira published her first book of poems, dedicating it to “the dreamers and the doubters.”
They still met at the Blue Lantern, their debates growing softer, more playful.
One evening, as the sun set and the city lights flickered on, Eli raised his cup in a toast.
“To reality,” he said.
Samir grinned. “Whatever that is.”
Mira laughed. “To the beautiful illusion.”
They clinked their cups, laughter echoing through the café.
And for the first time, Eli didn’t care if it was real.
He was here. He was alive. He was loved.
And that, he decided, was enough.//
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Alicia Addara is a multilingual author with a richly layered heritage, born to a Spanish-Italian mother and a Dutch father. She developed an early love for language, culture, and existential thought. Alicia studied philosophy in Paris, later completing a master’s in comparative literature at the University of Bologna.
Fluent in English, French, Spanish, and conversational in German, Alicia brings a worldly, reflective lens to her fiction. Her work blends sharp insight with lyrical storytelling, often exploring identity, dislocation, and the quiet moments that define human connection.
Now based on the west coast of the US, she focuses on short stories, novels and non-fiction exploring themes of consciousness and reality.
About the Author
