The conference hall’s lights greeted Elena with a hardened clarity.

Almost magnetically, countless pairs of eyes swiveled to observe her movements, each belonging to a mind with the power to rewrite societal knowledge itself.

She didn’t meet any of their gazes, holding her own steadily on the podium.

Her trial had already begun.

Calmly, she took center stage, holding her ground as she removed her papers from her bag.

“My theory proposes that reality does not operate on absolute limits,” Elena began, her voice steady. “Only compressed ones.”

She continued to outline the “Possibilistic Compression Model”, as she had coined it, elaborating on how the constraints of existence were not enforced by impossibility, but by a sort of possibilistic pressure. Essentially, humanity’s notion of “impossibility” emerged not from absence, but from laws shaped by compression.

“Compression,” she stated, “is not absolute. It is layered containment.”

She drew upon models she had pre-constructed.

Theoretically speaking, the logic defining compression allowed for the implication of “loose” existences– Those “higher” on a possibilistic scale that consequently experienced greater freedom. Without compression, the boundary between the possible and impossible could blur, or even be pushed back.

For a while, the world did not resist her.

“Hence, the human act of dreaming is not merely escapism or flights of fancy. It is leakage.”

If the physical universe is forced under possibilistic compression, must the same be true for the human mind?

“Dreams,” she reiterated, “are glimpses of higher Possibilities.”

The silence that followed was not yet rebuttal– It was an appraisal. The constant frequency of scribbling pens suddenly halted.

Face lifted, turning towards one another.

Towards the back of the room, someone attempted to stifle a cough.

Then, voices began piling on top of each other. It began with muttered fragments of sentences, barely audible.

“Unfalsifiable.”

“Category error.”

These voices pointed their blades towards the podium–

“I must say, it’s quite… poetic.”

“Have we all been gathered here for a lesson on metaphysics?”

“It is quite the dream journal.”

–blades sheathed in intellectual formalities that made them almost bite harder.

Elena remained still, and silent.

The comments turned to critiques, straining that thread of restraint until it snapped. The critiques melted into amusement, and amusement tipped into laughter.

Even still, she did not strike back.

In fact, she decided to no longer wait.

One by one, she gathered her papers, and noticing that one was out of order, she returned it to its proper place.

“So this is how compression resists,” she thought, almost amused, as she stepped down from the podium.

Even the moderator glossed over her departure.

As she casually made her way down the hall, Elena began wondering what she’d have for dinner later, already rolling her sleeve back up.

“Elena!”

His voice pulled her back again.

As soon as she turned to address the noise, his words pounced.

“Okay– That… went a little off the rails, but– It doesn’t have to stay that way!”

He raked his fingers through his hair, his eyes not quite meeting hers.

“They’re talking, but talking doesn’t mean deciding. We can go back. Submit a clarification. A sort of follow-up, you know?”

She continued to stare at him, her gaze teetering between perplexed and offended.

“Just come back with me. Say you didn’t mean… those parts– That you just got a little excited–”

“I meant what I said and I said what I meant,” she cut him off.

He leaned forward, almost starting again, before stuttering and stopping himself. Rephrasing.

“This isn’t how research works. You don’t get to define– Redefine the framework. You can’t just justify everything with– With dreams.”

That last word sounded foreign coming from his mouth.

“And why not?”

“This– You–”

His face was growing redder by the second.

“Elena. Do you know how much I put on the line for you? How much I vouched for you? They’re going to remember this! Remember us! Remember me–”

She was already beginning to turn away, when suddenly, his hand latched onto her wrist.

“It can’t just end here… You can’t just let it end here!”

She glared at him and wrenched her arm from his grasp.

“If you have nothing else to say, then–”

“Everyone has dreams, but nobody can live their life throwing everything away for them! You are not an exception!”

The end of those words submerged the hall in a ringing silence.

Finally, Elena looked back, and into his eyes.

She could only describe that look as fear.

Calmly, she turned to face him again.

“Tell me. Do you think you could still dream if you reached the top?”

He clenched his fists.

“You– I– What–?”

“Be careful what you perceive as the top.”

She began digging through the papers in her bag, before finally producing a neatly sealed envelope.

Without a crack in her voice, she gently slapped the letter against his chest, letting it float down into his now open hands, before adding, “Have a boring life.”

This time, she turned unopposed.

He didn’t stop her. He couldn’t

They both knew what that letter meant.

The rest of her day drifted by with an almost dull unease. Not the unease of uncertainty, but the unease of absence– of unfulfilment.

Standing before her nightstand, she gently removed her glasses and looked out the window once more, the stars now reduced to blurry specks.

A dream.

That was what she needed right now.

She turned off the lights and asked the darkness, “What kind of dream would you dream now, Aster?”

With that, she allowed herself to sink into her bed, eyes lightly shut.

That is, until the world itself shifted.