Alright.
Slow nightmare logic. No escape. No relief.
Second person. You don't wake w
You realize you're dreaming because the apartment is wrong.
Not immediately wrong. That would be easy. Nightmares never start that way. They wait until you've accepted the space as normal before they begin rearranging it.
You are standing in the hallway again.
The front door is in front of you. Your keys are in your hand. Your coat is still on. You can feel its weight on your shoulders, the stiffness in the fabric where it never quite dries right. Cold air clings to you, even though you're indoors.
You don't remember getting up.
You don't remember walking here.
You don't remember unlocking the door.
But the door is open.
The hallway light flickers softly, not broken, just tired. The same buzz as always. The smell of dust and old paint is stronger now, layered with something warmer underneath.
Breath.
You step inside.
The door closes behind you without a sound.
You turn around—
And stop.
The lock is already engaged. Deadbolt turned. Chain fastened.
Your keys are still in your hand.
You frown, a dull confusion settling in. Dreams do this. They skip steps. They cheat. You try to remind yourself of that, but the thought feels distant, muffled, like it belongs to someone else.
You move deeper into the apartment.
Everything is where it should be.
Everything is where it usually is.
But the proportions are wrong. The hallway feels longer than it ever has, stretching ahead of you by an extra step, maybe two. The walls are closer together. Not enough to brush your shoulders—just enough that you're aware of them.
The carpet muffles your footsteps too much. The sound doesn't travel.
You reach the living room.
The couch is there. The coffee table. The lamp by the window. But the window looks out onto darkness that doesn't match the street you know. No lamps. No cars. Just a flat, depthless black, like the world stops at the glass.
You approach it cautiously.
Your reflection appears before you reach the window.
It's a little delayed.
You lift your hand.
Your reflection follows a heartbeat later.
You lower it.
Again, the delay.
You stare at yourself, studying the details. Your face looks almost right. The shape of your mouth, your eyes, your nose. But your expression doesn't match what you're feeling. It's calmer. Softer.
Patient.
You step back.
Your reflection doesn't.
It remains close to the glass, head tilted slightly, watching you with an interest that makes your skin prickle.
"You're asleep," you whisper.
The reflection smiles.
Not wide. Not sharp.
Just enough to suggest it heard you.
You stumble away from the window, heart racing, and turn toward the kitchen.
The kitchen light is already on.
You know you didn't turn it on.
The table is set.
Not for a meal. No plates. No food. Just chairs. All of them pulled out slightly, as if they were recently occupied.
Except one.
One chair is pushed in neatly, aligned with the table.
You don't want to know which one.
You move past the kitchen without looking too closely, your steps quickening as panic begins to leak into your thoughts. You head for the bedroom. That's where you were. That's where you're supposed to wake up.
The bedroom door is closed.
You stop in front of it.
Your hand hovers over the knob.
From the other side, you hear breathing.
Your breathing.
Slow. Steady. Asleep.
Your stomach drops.
You press your ear to the door.
The sound is unmistakable. The faint hitch on the inhale. The soft exhale through parted lips. The exact rhythm you've listened to your entire life without ever really hearing it.
You pull back, shaking your head.
"No," you say. "No, no, no."
You reach for the door anyway.
The knob turns easily.
Inside, the bedroom is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp. The bed is exactly where it should be.
You are in it.
You lie on your side, facing the wall, covers pulled up to your chin. Your hair is mussed. Your face is relaxed in the way it only ever gets when you're deeply asleep.
You look peaceful.
The sight fills you with a sudden, irrational anger.
That's not how you feel. That's not what sleep feels like anymore.
You take a step closer.
The floor creaks.
The sleeping you stirs but doesn't wake. You shift slightly, exhaling a little more sharply before settling again.
You flinch.
You shouldn't be able to affect yourself.
You stand there, staring, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might wake both of you.
Behind you, something moves.
Not fast. Not loud.
Just enough to change the air.
You don't turn around.
You don't need to.
You feel it step closer, the pressure returning at your back, familiar now in the worst way. The warmth is wrong. Too even. Too deliberate.
A presence that knows exactly how close to stand.
A voice speaks softly near your ear.
"You always do this part wrong."
You gasp and spin around.
The room stretches as you move, the walls pulling away like elastic. The figure behind you resolves slowly, as if the dream needs time to render it.
It looks like you.
Not perfectly. Not yet.
The proportions are slightly off. The shoulders too still. The eyes too focused. It stands barefoot on the carpet, mirroring your posture with unsettling precision.
It smiles.
"You wake up here every time," it says, in your voice. "You think you can fix it if you see it early enough."
You back away until your calves hit the bed.
"I'm dreaming," you say, louder now. "This isn't real."
The thing tilts its head.
"That's not how this works," it says gently. "If it weren't real, you wouldn't feel that."
It gestures.
You realize your hands are trembling. You can feel the roughness of the carpet under your feet. The cool air on your skin. The steady ache in your chest.
Too much detail.
Nightmares blur. They smear. This doesn't.
"This is my dream," you insist.
The thing's smile widens just a little.
"No," it says. "It's mine. You're just in it."
It steps closer.
You scramble backward onto the bed, nearly tripping over your sleeping body. The sheets ripple under your movement, and you feel the mattress give in a way that makes your skin crawl.
The thing watches with open curiosity.
"You don't remember falling asleep," it continues. "You never do. You just… stop noticing when you cross over."
"I wake up," you say. "I always wake up."
The thing laughs quietly.
"That's what you call it."
It reaches out and places a hand on your sleeping shoulder.
You scream.
Your sleeping body doesn't react.
The hand sinks into the flesh slightly, not violently, just enough to suggest familiarity. Ownership.
"See?" it says. "You don't wake up. You switch."
The room darkens around the edges, shadows bleeding inward like ink dropped in water. The walls seem farther away now, the ceiling higher. The bed feels too small to contain both of you.
"You don't belong here," you say, your voice shaking. "Get out of my head."
The thing looks almost offended.
"I've been here longer than you think."
It leans down, bringing its face close to your sleeping ear.
"Listen," it whispers.
You hear it then.
Another breathing pattern.
Not yours.
Not the thing's.
Coming from the corner of the room.
Slow. Heavy. Labored.
You turn your head despite yourself.
The corner is darker than it should be, shadow piled on shadow, depthless and thick. Something shifts within it, a suggestion of shape without edges.
Watching.
Waiting.
The thing straightens.
"That's the part you never remember," it says. "You notice me. You panic. But you don't notice that."
The breathing grows louder.
Closer.
The shadow in the corner stretches, thinning, pulling itself along the walls like a stain that refuses to stay put.
"What is that?" you whisper.
The thing shrugs.
"The reason."
It steps aside, giving the shadow a clearer path.
"You thought you were being followed," it continues. "You thought something came home with you. But that was just the echo. I'm the adjustment."
The shadow reaches the bed.
The air grows cold.
Your sleeping body shivers.
"No," you say. "No, no, no—"
The thing places a hand on your chest.
"Shh," it says. "You're going to wake him."
"Him?" you choke.
It smiles again.
"You."
The shadow leans over the bed.
You can't see its face. You're not sure it has one. But you feel its attention press down on your sleeping body, heavy and absolute.
Your chest tightens.
Your lungs burn.
You realize you're holding your breath—and you don't know how to start again.
"This is where you always try to move," the thing says calmly. "Go ahead."
You try.
Your body doesn't respond.
Your arms feel distant, like they belong to someone else. Your legs are numb. Panic flares hot and sharp, but it doesn't translate into motion.
The shadow lowers itself further.
You feel a weight settle over your ribs.
Sleep paralysis.
The thought surfaces weakly, like a lifeline. This happens to people. It's explainable. Temporary.
The thing laughs softly.
"You don't get to use that word here."
The shadow presses down harder.
Your vision tunnels. The room blurs at the edges, colors draining away until everything is shades of gray and black.
The thing leans close, its mouth near your ear.
"You're not waking up," it whispers. "You're being left behind."
The shadow exhales.
Its breath is cold and smells faintly of dust and something old, like a room that hasn't been opened in years.
Your sleeping body's eyes snap open.
So do yours.
For one impossible moment, you're looking at each other from opposite sides of the same face.
Then—
You fall.
Not downward.
Inward.
The apartment collapses around you, walls folding in, ceiling dropping away, the world shrinking to a single point of pressure behind your eyes.
You try to scream.
You wake up.
You are in your bed.
Your heart is racing. Your sheets are twisted around your legs. The room is dark and quiet and exactly as it should be.
Relief crashes over you so hard it almost hurts.
It was just a nightmare.
Just a nightmare.
You lie there, breathing heavily, staring at the wall. Your body slowly loosens, the terror draining away like water through a sieve.
You swallow and shift slightly, careful not to move too much.
Something brushes against your back.
Warm.
Familiar.
The mattress depresses gently.
A breath touches your neck.
And a voice, very close, very pleased, whispers:
"See? You woke up."
You don't turn around.
You never do.
And somewhere, just behind you, something smiles and settles in, ready to dream you again.