A Pause Between Pages
He woke to the soft sound of breathing.
Not his own.
Across the room, standing near the window, was the girl.
Her arms were folded behind her back.
Her eyes were distant.
Like she was listening to something far away.
The room was dim.
The curtains were drawn, but a soft orange light bled through the cracks, as if a sunset had stalled just outside.
He sat up slowly.
His throat was dry.
The air felt… paused.
"Were you watching me sleep?" he asked, voice rough.
The girl turned to him and shrugged gently.
"I didn't want to wake you."
He looked around the room.
It felt familiar.
Too familiar.
The blanket had the same fold across the corner. The dresser still had that single red book tilted slightly outward. A glass of water rested on the nightstand, filled just enough to suggest someone had recently sipped from it.
Everything was in its place.
Even if he didn't remember placing any of it.
"How long have I been here?" he asked.
She tilted her head.
"A while."
"How long is a while?"
Her smile was sad.
"Long enough to forget. Not long enough to let go."
He stood slowly, feeling the stiffness in his limbs. The mirror in the corner of the room was covered now, draped in a thin white cloth. He didn't remember doing that either.
"Do you know where we are?" he asked her.
Her gaze flicked toward the door.
"I think you've asked that before."
He frowned.
"Did I?"
She didn't reply.
Outside the room, the hallway waited—sharpened at the edges, quieter than it should be. The kind of quiet that listened.
But neither of them moved.
Not yet.
He looked down at his hands.
Then at her.
"Do you think I'm real?" he asked.
She didn't answer immediately.
Then, softly:
"That's not the question you're afraid of."
A long pause.
The air buzzed faintly. Not like sound. Like tension.
He didn't know what came next.
Only that something was missing.
And that she wasn't going to tell him what it was.