Finally, it was time to go home.
Everyone was exhausted today, drained by the endless demands of the Christmas decorations.
I packed my things, called out a weary goodbye to the group, and began the trek back.
That one message was still sitting there, marked as "pending," but I didn't have the energy to care.
When I reached home, everything was normal. It's always the same—steady, predictable, unchanging. I went straight to my room and sat in the silence for a while, my gaze drifting toward the corner of the wall.
I'd forgotten how heavy my own limbs could feel.
I stood up and moved to the mirror, staring at my reflection. It looked normal today, yet I couldn't look away. I don't know why I've become so preoccupied with it lately. Eventually, I shook off the thought, changed into fresh clothes, and went to join my family for dinner.
"How was your day?" they asked.
"Hectic," I replied, the fatigue evident in my voice. "I had so much to do."
"About what?"
"Christmas decorations..."
"Haha! So, they've turned you into a professional decorator now?"
We talked and laughed about the absurdity of my day. After dinner, we finished our usual evening routines, and I headed straight for bed. My body was aching, a dull throb in my muscles from the physical labor. I knew I would fall asleep quickly tonight.
I reached for my phone and scrolled through random videos. They were boring, but I needed the background noise to quiet my mind. I couldn't talk to my friends today; I simply didn't have the social energy to hold a conversation.
After a few minutes... just a few minutes... sleep claimed me.
But it was a strange sensation—that thin, blurring line between consciousness and rest. Something felt different about tonight.
I opened my eyes.
Wait, I opened my eyes? I'm supposed to be asleep. How is it possible that I can see?
I thought I had fallen into a deep, dreamless slumber, but instead, I found myself standing in a vast, white space. It was an endless expanse, as infinite as a universe, but devoid of stars. There was nothing but a blinding, silent white. No sound. No horizon.
And then, a cold shiver of recognition washed over me. I remembered this. I had been here before.
"Why now?" I whispered into the void.
I stood there, my feet planted on a surface that didn't feel like a floor, yet supported my weight all the same. In this place, there was no wind to chill me and no sun to warm me. It was just... neutral.
"Hello?" I called out. My voice didn't echo. The whiteness seemed to swallow the sound instantly, leaving me in a vacuum of silence that pressed against my eardrums.
I started to walk. I didn't have a direction, but staying still felt dangerous, like I might disappear if I didn't keep moving. As I walked, the memories of the "before" started to leak back in. This wasn't a dream. This was the place between things—the hallway of the mind that I had visited once.
"Where is he?"
"Hloooo….?"
Suddenly, a shape began to form in the distance.
At first, it was just a grey smudge against the clinical white, but as I ran toward it, it sharpened. It was the mirror. The same mirror from my bedroom, standing perfectly upright in the middle of nothingness.
I stopped a few feet away, my heart hammering against my ribs. I looked down at my hands; they were pale, almost translucent in this light. I looked back at the glass.
My reflection wasn't waiting for me.
The mirror showed my room—the messy bed, my mom and grandma, the phone still glowing on the nightstand, my own body curled under the blankets, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. I was watching myself sleep.
" im watching myself sleep?"
But then, the "me" in the bed opened their eyes.
The version of me in the room sat up slowly, looking directly into the mirror—looking directly at me—and a slow, terrifying smile spread across their face. A smile I have never made in my life.
"You're late," the reflection whispered.
I felt a sudden, violent tug at my navel, like a hook pulling me toward the glass.