"Alex!"
Alicia jolts awake, screaming.
The next second, she is sitting upright in her dark room, chest heaving. The lights are off. She is alone. No one is there. And definitely no Alex.
Her fingers clutch the bedsheet so tightly her knuckles turn pale. Cold sweat runs down her spine, soaking through the thin fabric of her nightshirt. It is almost the end of autumn, the air cool and dry, yet she is drenched.
She swallows hard and forces herself out of bed. Her legs feel weak as she crosses the small space and flips on the light.
The room floods with artificial brightness.
She blinks and turns her head toward the wall clock.
4.00 a.m.
Again.
It is the same time.
Why do I keep seeing that Alex is dead? He's not dead.
Is he?
Her throat tightens.
Alicia walks to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. The cold air brushes her heated skin. She shuts the fridge door, sets the bottle on the kitchen table, and sinks into a chair.
