I used to think my life was predictable. Wake up, work, eat, sleep. But then reality started throwing curveballs—moments so surreal, they felt like scenes from a movie. Except they weren’t fiction. They were mine.
It started with a woman at work. We’d exchanged small talk, nothing deep. One day, she asked when my wedding was. I smiled and said it was a small event. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “I’ll be there.” She showed up. Uninvited. In white.
Then there was the Airbnb incident. I noticed a blinking light in the bathroom switch. Panicked, I tore it out, thinking it was a hidden camera. The owner barged in, furious. Turns out it was a smoke detector. I felt like I’d stepped into a psychological thriller—except I was the one unraveling.
Another time, I booked aisle and window seats for my son and me, hoping the middle would stay empty. A woman was already in the window, pretending to sleep. I took the middle. Then a man arrived—his ticket said middle. She froze. He said, “You again?” They’d met before. On another flight. Same seat. Same trick. I was caught in someone else’s twisted déjà vu.
I once helped a stranger who collapsed on the street. Later, I found out he was a wanted fugitive. My kindness had made headlines. I didn’t know whether to feel proud or terrified.
And then there was my neighbor. Quiet, polite, always gardening. One day, police swarmed his house. He’d been running an illegal lab beneath his shed. I’d borrowed sugar from him the week before.
These moments taught me that reality doesn’t need explosions or dramatic music to hit hard. It sneaks up quietly. It rewrites your assumptions. It reminds you that truth is often stranger—and sharper—than fiction.
Now, I live with my eyes wide open. Because the next twist could be waiting in the most ordinary moment.
