I wish I could say that waking up feels different from dreaming.
That there’s a moment where the world
snaps into focus and I know, without a doubt, that I’m here, that I’m real. But it doesn’t. It never does.
This morning, or at least what I think is morning, I stare at the ceiling, waiting for something to make
sense. The light is pale and gray, spilling through the curtains like a fog. It doesn’t feel right. The air is
too still, like the whole room is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
I sit up, and the bed groans beneath me. It always feels like it’s alive, like it knows I’m about to leave
and it’s trying to hold me in place. I press my hand into the mattress, feeling it sink, feeling it give in
just a little too much, and then pull back.
The same routine. Every day. If this is a dream, it’s a cruel one. If it’s real, it’s worse.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and push myself up. The floor feels cold, colder than it
should. I wrap my arms around myself and shuffle to the window. It’s always the window. That’s where
I start, because maybe today will be the day that the sky looks normal, that the world outside is as solid
and predictable as it should be. But it isn’t.
The sky is still that washed-out, blank canvas, the kind that stretches on forever without end. No sun,
no clouds, just nothing. I squint, trying to make sense of it, but it’s like looking into a void. I can almost
feel it pulling at me, tugging at the edges of my mind, daring me to step outside and lose myself in it.
I won’t. Not yet.
My room is small, familiar, but in the way you remember a place from childhood, like it’s a memory
more than a real space. The furniture is all in the right places—the bed by the wall, the desk cluttered
with half-empty notebooks, the chair that’s too big for the corner it’s stuffed into—but it still feels
wrong. Every time I touch something, it leaves a trace on me, like a film, something that sticks to my
skin. I hate it.
There’s a mirror across from the bed, and I catch my reflection as I walk by. I stop. It’s me, but it’s not.
The girl in the mirror looks like me—same hair, same eyes—but there’s something missing. I step
closer, watching her do the same, and for a second, I think she’s going to speak. But she doesn’t. I don’t
even know if she can.
I turn away, because I don’t want to know what happens if I keep staring. I head for the door, my hand
trembling as it wraps around the knob. My heart is pounding, a steady thump that reminds me I’m still
alive. I think. I pull the door open and step into the hallway.
It’s dark out here, like always. The lights flicker overhead, casting long, distorted shadows along the
walls. I walk slowly, my footsteps echoing, even though the floor is carpeted. It’s quiet, but I know
better than to trust it. There’s always something here, lurking in the corners, waiting.
I reach the stairs, and the familiar knot of dread tightens in my stomach. I hate the stairs. I hate the way
they spiral down into nothing, like they’ll never stop. But I have to go down. I always have to go down.
I take the first step, gripping the banister so hard my knuckles turn white. The wood is slick and cold
under my hand, and I wonder if I’ll slip. Part of me hopes I do. Maybe if I fall, I’ll wake up. Maybe I’ll
break out of this endless loop of waking and sleeping and dreaming and knowing none of it is real.
I keep going, step after step, down into the dark. The air gets colder, thicker, like it’s pressing against
me, trying to keep me from moving. But I keep going. I have to.
By the time I reach the bottom, my legs are trembling, but I’m used to that by now. I stand there,
staring into the darkness ahead, waiting for something to come out of it.
And then, just like that, I see it—the figure from my dream. It’s standing at the end of the hallway, still
and silent, watching me. I don’t know how long it’s been there, how long it’s been waiting. My chest
tightens, but I don’t move.
We stare at each other, locked in this moment, neither of us speaking, neither of us daring to make the
first move. I can feel its gaze on me, cold and heavy, and I know, deep down, that it’s not going to leave
this time.
But neither am I.
