The first thing that unsettled me when I fully transitioned to Dev was the absence of time. In this alternate reality, day and night blur into a translucent midpoint, an endless existence without need for sleep.

Specialists call what I’m experiencing transition shock—a temporary disorientation—but mine has lingered. How long now? I’ve lost track.

Rumors circulate in the underground circuits that everyone suffers at least one side effect after transitioning to Dev. Publicly, we were assured the LitB inoculation would neutralize them. It didn’t work for me.

There is no exhaustion in Dev, no biological need for rest. If you crave sleep, there’s a place to plug in and simulate the experience. But even that doesn’t help me.

I miss the good old days when sleep was my favorite escape. Before the devastating occurrence that changed the trajectory of my life, I was a deep sleeper. Mom used to tease that I was a modern-day Jonah. My brain did its best work in the dream world—processing, creating, reshaping ideas.

But growing up, I suffered from insomnia. A childhood trauma made me fear sleep itself.

I was six when the fire happened. A gas leak in our kitchen ignited while we slept. There was no fire alarm—we were too poor to afford one. I jerked awake from a nightmare to find my room engulfed in flames. There was no fire service to call. Somehow, coughing and stumbling, I made it outside, but my parents were nowhere in sight. It was 2 a.m. on a harmattan morning. The neighbors tried to put out the fire, but it was too late.

My right arm was badly burned. The incident stole my ambidexterity, my parents, and my peace of mind. A part of my young brain convinced itself I was to blame. Had I forgotten to turn off the gas as Mom instructed?

I saw countless specialists and took endless medication—nothing worked. Sleep became a distant thing. Then, I heard about Tariku Negasi.

Everyone knew Tariku. At ten, he was solving equations that baffled professors. By the time I got a scholarship to college, he was already a researcher. We weren’t in the same circles—I wasn’t an intellectual prodigy. My strength was in digital art. At 21, I managed to host a major exhibition in Dev, and the sheer joy of seeing my work making people happy solidified my decision. I would leave Earth behind.

Lilian, who apparently had a thing for me, was devastated when I told her.

I tried to convince her to come with me, listing all the benefits she had undoubtedly heard in commercials a thousand times. She refused. Maybe she thought our connection—I wouldn’t call it love—would be enough to make me stay.

She was wrong.

I was tired of Earth, tired of the way people recoiled at my scarred right arm. In Dev, I made sure my avatar was flawless, with a sleek bionetic arm.

But now, for the first time since I fully transitioned to Dev, I’m having serious second thoughts.

Tariku has summoned me. Maybe he wants to offer an opportunity to expand my artistic reach on a grander scale or discuss branding contract. But I have my own request.

They say it’s impossible, but I don’t believe that. There must be a way to undo the transition. I want to go back.

To Lilian.

To confront my fears.

To the possibility of experiencing real natural sleep. Even if it means dying trying.

Written by Praise Abraham