The first sound is the air conditioner.
It hums before I even open my eyes, a low, steady noise
coming from the corner of the room. I stare at the ceiling for a moment,
tracing the faint crack that runs from the light fixture to the wall. The same
crack I looked at yesterday. The same hum. The same white paint that always
looks a little too cold in the morning.
My phone vibrates on the bedside table. 7:10 a.m.
I don't hit snooze. I don't need to. I've been
half-awake for a while.
I sit up, feet on the cold tile. For a brief second I
just sit there, elbows on my knees, hands hanging.
The apartment is quiet except for the AC and the
distant traffic from the street below. No voices. No movement in other rooms.
No one calling my name. I stand, go to the bathroom, turn on the light. My face
in the mirror looks like it always does in the early morning: a little puffy,
eyes slightly red, hair stubborn. I brush my teeth. I watch the foam gather in
the sink and swirl away. It's not interesting, but it's something to look at.
In the kitchen, I fill the kettle, set it on the stove.
The flame clicks and catches. The room smells faintly like last night's eggs.
There's one mug on the drying rack. I put it down on the counter, wait for the
water to boil. No music. No TV. Just the kettle slowly starting to complain.
I scroll through my phone while I wait. Messages: none.
Notifications: a pointless app update, an ad. I swipe them away. The kettle
whistles. I pour the water over instant coffee, watch the dark powder bloom and
dissolve.
I drink standing at the counter. One hand on the mug,
one arm hanging by my side. The coffee is too hot, but it doesn't bother me. It
wakes the back of my throat.
Shower.
Clothes.
Wallet.
Keys.
ID badge.
Phone.
Bag.
Door locked.
The hallway outside the apartment is narrow and dim, a
long rectangle of beige paint and fluorescent lights. My footsteps echo a
little as I walk toward the elevator. No neighbors this morning. The elevator
doors slide open with the same slow reluctance as always. I step in, press the
ground floor, watch the numbers count down. This is independence, I guess. My
own place. My own bills. My own keys.
The building opens onto a street with low shops and
dusty parked cars. The air still holds a bit of morning cool, but the heat is
already waiting behind it. I put my headphones in but don't play anything. The
rubber tips block out most of the city, leave only a muffled, distant version. The
bus stop is three minutes away. I know every crack in the pavement on the path
there. At the office, the glass doors reflect my face back at me for a moment
before I step through. Inside, the air is too cold. The lobby smells like
disinfectant and cheap cologne. The receptionist nods. I nod back. We never say
good morning. It would be strange to start now.
The elevator ride up is shared with three other people.
One of them is from my floor, I think. I've seen him laugh at something in the
break room more than once. Today he stares at his phone, thumb moving fast. No
one speaks. The elevator chimes, doors open, we spill out into fluorescent
light and the sound of keyboards. My desk is against the wall, far from the
windows. I like that. Less exposure. The monitor wakes with a tap of the mouse.
Emails, spreadsheets, a new announcement from HR about something I won't read.
"Morning," someone says from a few desks away.
I raise a hand without looking up. It's easier that
way. The gesture passes as a greeting, and they don't try again.
The day starts. Numbers in cells. Reports. Copy, paste,
adjust. The rhythm is simple and predictable. I answer what I have to answer. I
keep my replies short. I don't volunteer anything. People talk around me about
TV shows, weekend plans, a new place that opened somewhere. Their voices rise
and fall, words blending into background noise. Occasionally someone laughs
loudly. I wait for the echo of the sound to die before I continue reading the
line I was on.
At lunch, I take out the cold food I brought and eat it
at my desk. Heating it would mean walking into the break room, waiting near
strangers, maybe small talk… I take a deep breath and tell my self, Cold is
easier.
Plastic fork. Cold rice. Screen glow reflected in the
metal.
I scroll my phone once, then put it face down.
The afternoon stretches out, steady and predictable.
Tasks pass one by one. A new email lands. I answer it. Someone asks a question.
I give the simplest possible reply. I don't look up long enough to encourage a
conversation.
At 5:32 p.m., I log out. The screen goes dark. My
reflection appears faintly on the black glass—just a ghost of a face with
office lights floating behind it. I gather my things. Bag strap over my
shoulder. ID badge off, into the pocket. I walk back toward the elevator, past
the same desks, the same chairs, the same people still talking.
One of my coworkers is standing by the door with
another guy, laughing. As I pass, I hear my name.
"Hey John, you heading out?" he asks.
I nod. "Yeah."
"Lucky," he says. "I'm stuck here another hour."
I make a small sound that could be a laugh. "See you
tomorrow."
I'm not sure if he hears me. I don't look back to
check.
Downstairs, the air has changed. It's thicker now,
warmer, the light softer and more orange. The sun has started its slow drop,
stretching shadows across the street.
I take the usual road home. The one that cuts past a
small grocery store, a bakery, a mechanic's shop with cars in various stages of
disassembly. A group of kids kick a flattened bottle by the wall, shouting
about something only they understand.
The traffic is heavier now. Cars move in uneven lines,
pausing, surging, pausing again.
Engines hum, horns press in short bursts. The city
sounds more awake than it did this morning.
I reach a crosswalk and stop at the red light with a
handful of other people.
Traffic is backed up.
Engines idle.
Heat rises off the road in waves.
Then—
A horn blasts behind the congestion.
Sharp. Too loud.
A car forces its way through the gap, moving too fast
for the traffic around it.
Tires screech.
Rubber skids across blistered asphalt.
The sound cuts through the air — harsh, metallic,
wrong.
The car manages to stop.
Barely.
Half a meter from the bumper ahead. Maybe less.
My breath catches.
My chest tightens.
My heartbeat slams against my ribs, too fast, too loud,
too close.
Someone yells. Another horn answers.
People look back, annoyed.
The light turns green.
Everyone starts walking, the crowd pulling me with it.
Step by step, my breathing steadies. The horns fade. The sounds return to
normal.
By the time I reach the opposite curb, the moment feels
distant —
but not gone.
I keep walking.
By the time I reach my building, the near miss is
already shrinking in my mind, filing itself away like every other small
disturbance in a long day.
I open the main door, climb the stairs instead of
taking the elevator. The hallway on my floor is as quiet and dim as it was this
morning.
Inside my apartment, the air is cooler. The AC is still
on. The room looks exactly as I left it: unmade bed, plate in the sink, chair
pulled halfway out from the small table.
I put my keys in the hanger by the door. Drop my bag on
the chair. Toed-off shoes stay where they land.
I don't turn any lights on yet. The remaining daylight
filters in through the window, soft and dull, just enough to shape the
furniture into familiar outlines.
In the kitchen, I open the fridge and stare at the
contents. Leftover rice. A plastic container with something I don't feel like
eating. A bottle of water. I take the water.
The fridge door closes with a low thud.
I drink standing in the middle of the room, watching
nothing.
The rest of the evening is routine. Cold dinner. Quiet
scrolling. A long sit at the edge of the bed doing nothing in particular.
Eventually, I brush my teeth again. Wash my face.
The mirror looks back, neutral and uninterested.
I lie down.
The AC hums.
Streetlight edges glow faintly through the curtains.
My eyes close eventually.
Sleep doesn't arrive all at once. It leaks in slowly,
around the edges of thoughts. The near miss on the street floats up for a
moment—the horn, the screech, the sudden lurch of the car—and then sinks back
down, replaced by something older.
⸻
It's not a memory. It's a story I've heard enough times
that my mind has given it pictures.
The door is there first.
Not the whole door, just the lower half. A rectangle of
wood, worn near the bottom. A pair of shoes beside it, blurred. The light is
wrong for any time I know—too flat, too even—like the room is indoors and
nowhere at the same time.
A man's hand rests on the doorknob. I don't see his
face. I don't see his eyes. Just the back of his shoulder, the edge of a
sleeve, the line of a jaw in shadow.
Somewhere behind him, a woman's voice says his name.
The sound is muffled, as if it's coming through a wall. I can't make out the
words that follow. They stretch and bend like they're underwater.
He doesn't turn around.
His fingers tighten slightly on the metal. The door
opens a fraction, letting in a sliver of light from a corridor that doesn't
exist in any house I've lived in. There's a pause, as if the moment is waiting
to decide what it will become.
Then he steps through.
The door closes. The click of the latch is clear, too
loud for such a small sound. The frame of the door lingers for a second, then
fades into another room, like the dream changes its mind about where it wants
to be
Now she's sitting.
My mother — younger than I've ever seen her — perched
on the edge of a bed or a chair.
The dream doesn't commit to either. Her hands rest
loosely in her lap. Her head is bowed just slightly.
One single breath trembles as she takes it in.
Not a sob.
Not a cry.
Just a small, unstable inhale that says everything a
sound could say.
The room around her is empty except for the quiet.
The dream dissolves before anything else can form.
⸻
My phone vibrates.
7:10 a.m.
The ceiling.
The same crack.
The same hum of the AC.
I blink slowly. The fragments slip away —
a door, a figure, a breath.
My feet find the cold tile.
I sit with elbows on my knees for a moment.
Then I stand.
Bathroom.
Mirror.
Teeth.
Routine.
Kettle.
Mug.
Coffee.
Outside, the city waits exactly where I left it.