The next morning, I wake up before my alarm even goes off.
Not that it matters. I barely slept. I roll onto my side, staring at the wall for a long moment, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me again.
The house is silent. Mom's already at work, or maybe she's just pretending she is. Either way, I'm alone. Again.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my face with both hands. My head feels heavy, like it's full of static. I stare down at the floor, my room a mess of clothes, old homework, and sketches I'll probably never finish.
"Another day, another waste of time," I mumble to myself.
Dragging myself out of bed, I throw on the same hoodie from yesterday and the day before. No one at school notices what you wear anyway. Nobody looks at me unless they have to.
I grab a half-frozen granola bar from the counter and head out the door.
The cold slams into me like a wall. My breath comes out in sharp white clouds as I trudge down the road toward school.
Same town. Same streets. Same everything.
Except... it isn't.
Something's off. I can feel it in my gut.
The buildings look... wrong.
It's nothing obvious — no broken windows or anything — but it's like they're tilted just slightly when I'm not looking straight at them.
I blink hard, shake my head.
You're tired, Jerry. That's all.
I keep walking, shoving my hands deeper into my hoodie. The familiar ache creeps into my chest again.
Not sadness.
Not anger.
Just that hollow, empty feeling that I'm getting way too used to.
At school, it's the same story.
I walk down the halls, brushing past groups of kids talking, laughing, living.
No one sees me. Not really. I could probably disappear and no one would even blink.
I find my locker and slam it shut harder than I meant to.
The sound echoes down the hall, and a few people glance my way... but only for a second.
Their faces blur for just a moment — like TV static flashing across their features — and then it's gone.
I freeze.
"Did that...?" I whisper to myself.
No one else seems to notice. Everyone just goes back to what they're doing like nothing happened.
I stand there for a long moment, heart pounding in my ears.
Maybe I'm just imagining it, I think. Maybe I'm finally losing it.
I walk to class, trying to ignore the way the world feels thinner somehow. Like a sheet of ice starting to crack under my feet.
---
Classes are a blur.
Math. Science. History.
All the words mash together, meaningless noise bouncing around my head.
I can't focus. I can't stop thinking about that moment in the hallway.
At lunch, I sit by myself like always, picking at a sandwich I don't even want.
I stare out the cafeteria windows.
The sky's still gray, but every few seconds, the clouds seem to pulse, like they're breathing.
I squint, but when I focus, everything looks normal again.
"I'm not crazy," I mutter under my breath.
"I know what I saw."
But even as I say it, doubt gnaws at me. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe this is what losing your mind feels like — slow, creeping, impossible to stop.
I glance around the cafeteria. No one else notices anything. They're all caught up in their tiny dramas, their jokes, their tests. Their normal lives.
I press my fingers against my temples, trying to will the headache away.
"Get it together, Jerry," I whisper. "You're just tired. You're just... tired."
---
After school, I walk home slower than usual.
The streets seem emptier today. Or maybe it's just me.
I kick a chunk of ice across the sidewalk, watching it shatter against a stop sign.
There's that feeling again — like the world is holding its breath.
Like something is waiting.
I stop at the edge of town, right by the old train tracks.
There's an abandoned train car here, covered in rust and graffiti. I've sat here before, when I needed to think.
Today, it feels different. Heavier.
I hop up onto the edge of the train car and sit, swinging my legs over the side.
The metal is freezing cold against my jeans, but I don't care.
I lean back, staring up at the endless gray sky.
"I don't get it," I say out loud.
"Why does everything feel so fake? Like... like I'm the only real thing left."
The words sound ridiculous even as I say them.
But deep down, they feel true.
"Maybe I don't belong here," I whisper. "Maybe I never did."
The wind picks up, whistling through the cracks in the train car.
For a split second, I swear I hear something — a whisper, so faint I can't catch the words.
I sit bolt upright, heart hammering.
I look around.
Nothing. Just the wind. Just the empty fields stretching out forever.
"You're losing it, Jerry," I mutter. "You're seriously losing it."
But somewhere deep inside me, a tiny voice — not from outside, but from within — whispers
No. You're waking up.
The next day my mom tells me that we have to move all because of her job typical.