Years afterwards, I often wondered how different my life could have been. Somehow, one thought keeps recurring: it would have remained very much the same, dull, and boring as it always had been with the only excitement being the latest book in a series or having a new adventure to read. I would have stayed in my apartment as much as possible, unless I had work or my roommate decided to drag me out to a group of people I barely remembered the names of, let alone knew. I like to think I would've eventually married and had a kid or two. Then I would have spent my time being a stay-at-home mom, with my nice, doting husband coming home every day, and our sweet children. That is until they graduated and started their own lives. At that point, I'd begin my novel. Sometimes, I think it would have been a bestseller, but other times, to cheer myself up, I'm convinced it wouldn't have gotten much recognition. Then one day, I would have died as everyone else who has, had, and will cross these worlds.
But none of this would never happen because I had to go and accepted that stupid dare from practically a stranger. If I hadn't been pressured into going through with it, I wouldn't have ended up on a heat-forsaken planet, torn away from everything I knew, met an infuriating alien king and his inhuman offspring, and have had the adventures I only read about in books and dreamed up while I slept.
Looking back on all of this, I wouldn't have changed a thing.