"Huff… huff… W-what…? Again…?"
David jolted awake.
His entire body trembled violently. Sweat soaked through his shirt as he struggled to catch his breath. The dim glow of the television flickered across the dark living room walls.
For a moment, he just sat there.
Frozen.
Listening to the sound of his own breathing.
He grabbed the remote from the couch beside him and muted the TV. Silence filled the apartment once again.
David pressed a shaking hand against his face.
"That was the… I don't even know anymore…" he whispered weakly. "How many times have I seen that dream?"
His eyes drifted toward the hallway leading to the bedroom.
David stopped in front of it.
His hand hovered near the handle.
For a second, he didn't breathe.
Because the memory was already there. Not as a vision this time, but as sensation. Cold tile underfoot. The echo of something dropping. The shape of absence where someone should have been.
He swallowed hard.
"This is stupid," he muttered to no one in particular, like the walls were keeping score.
Then he opened the door.
The bathroom light flickered once before settling into a dull glow. Everything inside was exactly where it always was. Sink. Mirror. Tiles. Ordinary geometry pretending to be harmless.
But his body didn't believe in ordinary anymore.
The moment he stepped in, his mind tried to replace the room.
For a split second—
Not tile, but blood.
Not reflection, but something wrong standing just behind it.
David's hand tightened on the doorframe.
"Not real," he said under his breath, sharper this time. Like he was arguing with a memory that refused to take the hint.
He turned on the faucet.
Water rushed out. Loud. Simple. Mechanical proof that time was still moving forward even if he wasn't.
He leaned over the sink, gripping its edge until his knuckles went pale.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The mirror showed him exactly what he was: exhausted, haunted, still standing.
Still here.
That was the part that never made sense to him.
Because somehow, every night, every memory, every loop of that same collapsing moment…
He always made it to the bathroom.
And the bathroom always let him stay.