I don't sleep again.
I sit on the edge of the bed until dawn, lights on, phone clutched in my hands. Every time I blink for too long, I feel the room lean toward me, waiting.
Messages keep coming.
Some are frantic. Some confused. One is just a single word, repeated over and over until the sender stops responding.
you
you
you
By morning, my head feels stuffed with cotton and nails. A pressure builds behind my eyes, throbbing in time with my heartbeat. When I finally stand, the floor tilts—not physically, but perceptually, like my sense of balance hasn't decided which reality it belongs to.
I clean.
I wipe the mirror until my arm aches, though the crack refuses to disappear. I open the windows, let cold air pour in, convince myself that fresh oxygen can chase away whatever followed me out of sleep.
It doesn't help.
When I step into the hallway, I feel it immediately—the weight of other people's dreams brushing against me. Strangers glance my way and flinch. Someone stumbles, rubbing at their temples, eyes glassy and unfocused.
A woman on the stairs whispers my name.
I've never met her.
Outside, emergency sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Across the street, a digital billboard glitches, flashing static shapes that make my chest ache if I look for too long.
My phone buzzes again.
This time, it's a broadcast alert.
UNREGISTERED DREAM EVENT DETECTED
LOCALIZED ONEIRIC DISTURBANCE
PLEASE REMAIN AWAKE
My hands shake.
If I don't sleep, I think, this will stop.
That's the lie I cling to as I pull my jacket tight and step into the street. If I stay awake, if I stay quiet, if I don't let anyone close enough to feel me—
No more dreams will spill over.
No more mirrors will crack.
Behind me, in the darkened window of a parked car, my reflection smiles.
It isn't finished.
I keep walking.
I head for the distribution building, where the government issues stimulants during events like this. I repeat it to myself with every step.
Everything is going to be fine.
I avoid reflections, too afraid to see the consequences of my own actions staring back at me.
Footsteps echo behind me.
I walk faster. The building looms ahead, dull concrete and harsh lights, painfully real. I slip inside and join the line, forcing my thoughts away from the night.
I breathe in deep. Out slow.
I repeat the mantra I've used for years. Since the first time it happened.
I don't notice I'm next until the woman at the desk speaks, irritation sharp in her voice.
"You comin' up, or you gonna shiver and sweat all over my floors?"
I flinch, then nod quickly and step forward.
"Stimulant pads," I say.
She slides them across the counter without looking at me. I thank her, pay, and leave as fast as I can—unwilling to stay in one place any longer than necessary.