Dave just stared at the status screen.
He didn't blink. Didn't move.
A single tear slid down his cheek and landed on his hand.
The cool sensation of it broke him from the daze. He blinked. Another drop fell, splashing on his skin.
He reached up and touched his face—wet. More tears. He hadn't even realized he was crying.
'What's… going on?'
He stood up abruptly, chair scraping against the floor.
At that moment, the old lady from the counter approached with a tray of food.
"Here's your breakfast, dear," she said gently. Then she saw his face.
Her brows furrowed. "Oh, my—Dave? What happened?"
Her hand reached out and held his. She'd known Dave since his college days. He was practically family here. But now, seeing tears streaming silently down his face, she froze.
Dave blinked at her like he was still somewhere else. "I'll… I'll be back in a minute."
He slipped away before she could respond. She stood there for a moment, tray still in her hands, the food untouched. A knot tightened in her chest.
"I hope it's nothing serious…" she murmured to herself, and quietly returned to her work.
Dave pushed open the restroom door and stepped inside.
He locked it behind him.
Then staggered to the sink, bracing it with both hands, and looked up into the mirror.
There he was. Just Dave.
The same face. The same messy hair. Same dark circles from too many late nights.
But as he looked deeper, more tears welled up.
'Why… am I crying?'
The ache bloomed in his chest like something hollow trying to scream.
He didn't know why.
But he felt it—he had lost something. Something important. Something no one else could name, but that meant everything to him.
His voice came out hoarse, cracked.
"Why… does it hurt so much?"
His hands trembled. He tried to smile.
"I'm fine. I'm okay," he told his reflection. "I'm alive."
But the tears wouldn't stop.
He started to laugh—softly, nervously. Trying to deny it. To bury it. To outrun the feeling.
"I'm okay," he repeated, like a prayer.
But then—quiet. Subtle. From deep within the fog of his mind—came a thought.
A whisper.
"But I'm dead."
The laughter stopped.
The mirror blurred through his tears.
His knees weakened.
His shoulders shook.
"No… I'm not… I can't…"
But it was true. He knew it now.
He had died. The explosion. The gas. The dream that wasn't a dream.
This world—it looked like his, smelled like his, felt like his. But it wasn't.
He didn't belong here.
He was a ghost wearing his own skin.
And the weight of that truth crashed down on him all at once.
He tried to hold it in—but he couldn't.
The sobs tore through his chest like a storm breaking free.
He cried—not from fear, or confusion, but grief.
Grief for himself.
For the life he had.
For the world he lost.
He didn't know how long he stood there, sobbing into the silence.
But for the first time in years, he cried. Not for a character. Not for a story. Not for escape.
He cried for himself.
Because now… he finally understood.
He was gone... from his own world.
----
He didn't know how long he cried.
Ten minutes? Twenty?
Long enough for the pain to begin dulling, for the fog in his head to lift. His sobs faded, and his breathing slowed. The ache in his chest, though still there, became bearable. Manageable.
Clarity returned.
Dave looked up again at the mirror.
His face was a mess—tear-streaked, red-eyed, swollen—but undeniably his.
His lips twitched. Then he smiled.
And then he laughed.
"Ha… hahaha. Fuck… hah… I really cried. For my own death."
He shook his head, half amused, half hollow. "What kind of absurd setup is this…?"
Bits of memory were gone—scrubbed clean like smudges on glass. The elf… her name… the specifics of that dream-like place. Gone. But what mattered, what really mattered, had remained.
He understood now.
He was dead.
Or at least, the version of him from his original world was. That Dave—the one from his Earth—had died in an explosion. But now, here he was. Alive again. In a body that looked, sounded, and moved exactly like his own.
Only this one belonged to another version of him.
A parallel self.
Had that other Dave swapped places with him? Was he off in some fantasy world now? Living out the dreams Dave once read about in web novels?
He didn't know.
Didn't want to know.
Just accepting this was already more than enough.
He was in this world now. Anchored. Alive.
A ghost with no way out—but also no reason to escape.
He flexed his fingers. They felt real.
"I guess I'm not a ghost. Just… stuck. Unless I die again. Which, yeah, let's not test that theory."
He reached for the faucet.
"Let's wash this off first."
The water came cool and clean, and he splashed it onto his face, rubbing away the tear stains. The chill helped reset him. His eyes were still puffy and red, but emotionally? He was good.
Or at least good enough.
Wiping his face dry with a handkerchief, Dave left the restroom and returned to the dining area.
As he approached his table, the old lady spotted him and immediately came over, carrying the tray of food again.
She placed it gently in front of him, then set a hand on his shoulder with warm concern.
"Are you okay, Dave? Did something happen?"
Dave scratched the back of his head, awkward.
"Nothing big. Just… remembered Mom and Dad. You know how it is."
Her eyes softened. "Oh… that happens, sweetheart." She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then smiled. "I'm glad you're alright."
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "Thanks for worrying, Aunt Margareta."
"Of course. We've known each other too long for me not to worry."
They chatted for a bit longer—light, familiar talk—and after she was satisfied he was okay, she returned to her duties.
Dave dug into his breakfast. It was good. Comforting. Real.
Later, he made his way to the car and slid into the driver's seat.
The A/C hummed to life, cooling the early heat of the day.
He picked up his phone and stared at the screen for a moment.
Now that the emotional storm had passed and his mind had cleared, it was time to reevaluate everything.
He wasn't going back to "normal."
Because now, even with the world looking the same… he wasn't.