Sleeping is one of the many ways humans cheat time.
Passing time itself is a defensive mechanism—the brain demands it long before the heart ever wants it.
The brain understands the inevitability of death before we are ready to accept it, so it dulls awareness, slows perception, and drags us into unconsciousness.
Dreams and nightmares aren't opposites.
They're the same thing wearing different masks.
Neither can happen in reality—but both are necessary.
One soothes us enough to keep living.
The other reminds us why we're afraid to wake up.
But even that defense can rot.
The brain needs eight hours of sleep to function—to remain stable.
So what happens to people who sleep too much?
And what happens to those who can't sleep at all?
—
Well slept peacefully in his warm bed, his fat cat curled against his chest like an anchor.
For once, he dreamed of not waking up.
The door slammed open.
Both Well and the cat nearly died on the spot.
"It's seven already!" his mother shouted. "Don't you have school or work to attend?"
Her voice echoed like metal scraping concrete.
Well groaned, half-dead, pulling the cat closer in a useless attempt to mute reality.
His mother noticed the silence.
"Do you hear me?" she yelled louder.
The cat scratched him and escaped, offended.
"Well, for God's sake—it's Friday!" Well snapped back, his voice cracked with irritation.
His mother froze, shame flickering across her face.
"Oh… is it?" she muttered, looking at how exhausted he was.
"Then… keep sleeping."
She left the door wide open.
"The damn door," Well muttered.
She ignored him.
As the embodiment of sloth that he was, he forgot about it and sank back into sleep.
The cat returned after she left, settling on his head.
—
At the local hospital, Aizak sat on the balcony outside his room, smoking slowly and sipping coffee gone cold.
The sun was bright. He didn't feel it.
After his father's outburst, the college president had called him.
They talked.
He explained everything—the cigarette incident, the rapper, the viral videos, the mirror, the blood.
There was begging.
There was humiliation.
In the end, they failed him in the professor's subject. He would have to retake it in the summer—if he was even allowed back.
But the real problem was simpler.
He needed the professor's approval just to step foot on campus.
And the professor was likely pressing charges already.
Aizak exhaled, fingers brushing the new scar on his cheek.
"I deserve it," he murmured.
"No, you don't."
The voice was gentle. Familiar.
Aizak smiled before he realized it.
"H—hello."
She sat beside him on a nearby chair.
"So," she said lightly, "how's life hanging?"
Her smile made the sun feel unnecessary.
He couldn't look at her directly—not after yesterday.
"Are you okay?" she asked, resting her cheek on her palm.
She's an angel.
No—talk. Say something.
He shoved his thoughts into the same mental basement he used for everything else.
"It wasn't great," he said, blushing, "until you showed up."
She stared at him.
He panicked.
Then she laughed, hiding her face.
"You're funny, Aizak."
He laughed too—too loudly.
For the first time in a long while, he felt… safe.
They talked about nothing. Gossip. A doctor rumored to be a predator.
Normal, useless things.
Aizak lit another cigarette, staring into her eyes.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She snatched the cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray.
"Ashley. Call me Ash."
Friends?
Were they… friends?
"And as your friend," she added gently, "I won't tolerate your smoking."
Normally, he hated that kind of interference.
This time, he loved it.
Hypocrite.
Her expression darkened.
"Aizak," she said softly, "can I ask you something?"
He nodded, already knowing it wouldn't be pleasant.
"When was the last time you slept?"
His hands clenched against his thighs.
"A week," he said.
—
Well remained asleep despite his brother's shouting, the cat's weight, and most importantly—his father's presence.
He hated Fridays.
His father's day off.
The door opened again. This time slower. Worse.
"Well. Wake the fuck up. It's seven PM."
His father's voice.
The cat fled instantly.
Well's heart collapsed. His body refused to move.
Exhaustion—or something deeper—he couldn't tell.
He played dead.
After a while, his father left.
A note sat on the desk.
Your mother is sick. I'm taking her to the hospital. Your brother's with us.
Don't do anything stupid.
Well read it with half-open eyes.
Then threw it away and lay back down.
Wait.
No one's home.
A slow smile spread across his face.
Time to drink. Time to smoke.
—
Well left the house in a black jacket and cotton pants, hair wild, beard untouched for weeks.
He looked homeless.
A taxi took him to his usual spot—the abandoned bridge.
Two beers.
A pack of cigarettes.
The driver was the same old man who once terrified Aizak.
He looked at Well with something like regret.
The ride ended. No payment asked.
Weird.
Well walked onto the bridge singing to himself.
The Bridge of the Suicidal.
Structurally sound. Socially forbidden.
Names were carved into the metal. Reasons scratched beside them.
People jumped here.
Only Well came to drink.
But tonight, someone else stood at the edge, smoking.
With each step, the face became clearer.
They froze.
"Well?"
"…Rain?"