• 29 Dec, 2025 *

it starts when you wake up, at the end of a dream.

there was an airport, and a confusing text message, and one of your friends was there. you consider trying to tell that friend about it, about the oddness of the message and the vague dread that the dream left you with. but you know you wont be able to get the point across.

its a normal morning. last night was a normal night, lovelier than most.

you can’t shake the vague dread, though.

you go through the motions of living - make coffee, think about making breakfast, go upstairs to say good morning, go back downstairs to... you’re not sure.

you want to do some work today. you want to do something fulfilling. you want to live.

the dread intensifies, but doesnt get any less vague.

your friend comes downstairs to hang out for a few minutes. you dont really talk. you suspect they’re trying to escape the heat upstairs.

they let you know they’re going out later.

the dread starts to take a familiar shape, which is weird because you thought this was something you had moved on from.

the friend leaves, and you lay in silence for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling and rotating the dread in your stomach, trying to properly identify it. in the process, it gets a little closer.

you decide to play a game, one you’d been playing together. something small, something worthwhile, something wholesome. not as productive as you hoped, but fulfilling.

...or not. alone, it’s just a game, all numbers and choices and strategies. the experience is gone.

the friend comes back, ruffles your hair and says goodbye, they’re leaving now, and departs just as quickly.

the door closes. a few moments later they pad quickly past the window. your stomach feels like it’s full of sharp curls of lead.

you cant find it in yourself to play anymore. you just stare at the screen.

you try messaging a few friends. it just makes your chest hurt.

in rapid succession, you try thinking about: food reading work going for a walk going upstairs hurting yourself cleaning your bike writing moving your furniture being up somewhere very high the past your imminent future new years eve playing a different game messaging some different friends hurting y-

okay, stop. that just makes your chest hurt more. its really bad now.

you go upstairs. you say hi to [....]. she’s playing a game, headphones on. you lie down and hold your friend’s stuffed toy, the one thats really good for hugging. [....] has her headphones on. she’s playing a game you recommended. she doesnt notice you crying there for a few minutes in that place that used to be home.

you go downstairs. she sends you a message, just a purple heart. you dont know what that means. you send one back anyway.

you sit on your bed, you hug the toy you brought with you, and you start trying to figure out what’s wrong-

hello, says the dread in your stomach.

it reaches up and out and grasps the edges of that pain in your chest and tugs

and it all happens again.

you cannot stop crying. some part of you whispers with your voice, asking you whats wrong, what do we need, what should we do?

without meaning to, you slam your head against the wall behind you to escape that voice. it means well. it means well.

you curl up, you cant breathe, your eyes are overtaken by a waking dream of all the ways you could make this okay, one after the other

that part of you speaking with your voice begs for it to stop. she hugs you with your arms, and rubs your back, and uses your voice to say soothing words.

you cry harder, hyperventilating, but the vision goes away.

she lets you have your arms back long enough to type out a message to someone, only for some other part of you to fling the phone away before you can send it.

don’t do that. you can’t trust them! you’re just going to be hurt worse. what do you hope to achieve with this? dont do it. dont do it. leave it alone. its no good.

you hate how that voice makes so so so much sense but you also know that its trying to kill you without knowing it. she deserves better and you’re still trying to find it.

you hold yourself again through the next wave of sobs, and when its over you send the message.

you wait.

you wait.

you wait.

in the distance, someone is still crying.

you wait.

you feel yourself going numb. the far wall of your room is a lot further away than it was a few minutes ago. you can hear your heartbeat, and its viscerally unfamiliar.

you wait.

the crying has stopped. you dont know if the person has actually stopped crying, or just gone somewhere else.

your chest hurts for some reason, and you feel nauseous.

you pick up your phone. you start writing. you dont know why. the phrase ‘call for help’ lingers at the periphery of your awareness, but you know thats not what this is. calling for help just attracts predators, you’ve learned that.

you’re so tired. you hope that one day someone figures out whats wrong with you. you hope that its you.

you skim back through the draft, making sure it makes sense, that nobody said anything too obscene or untoward, that even this depiction of [_____] is clean and softened and sterile, as much as it can be.

its good enough.

you hit publish, and-