I had climbed stair after stair.
Now my hand rested on the doorknob labeled "rehabilitation room."
My step nearly broke the boundary between "going back" and "being trapped."
Then someone pulled my arm—
with a gentleness that somehow felt terrifying.
"I know you want to go in," he said softly. "But don't."
I turned.
And like fog that suddenly reminds you of the scent of a forgotten rain—
I recognized him.
My friend. A friend who might not have truly been a friend.
The most popular boy in my school. Handsome—so starkly different from my plain self.
"That place," he whispered again, "will destroy you more than you know."
I didn't answer.
But somehow—my steps turned away.
And before I realized it, I was already following him.
The two of us walked down the sidewalk like two shadows that had lost their owners.
No explanations.
No reasons.
And I… obeyed.
---
The café was small.
Too small to be called a meeting place, but too alive to be an escape.
Two black coffees were ordered.
Just enough sugar.
No more. No less.
"Why did I follow you?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away.
He only blew the steam from his coffee, as if my question was not a voice, but smoke he had to push away first.
"Do you remember my name?" he asked back.
I froze.
I knew his face.
Knew the way he laughed with all his heart.
Knew he was popular. Knew he was someone I envied. Knew I wanted to be him.
But his name?
"That's not what matters," he said, as if reading my hesitation.
He sipped his coffee. His eyes weren't on me, but on the window filled with the shadows of people passing by.
Or maybe… he was looking at his own reflection, slowly fading.
"I've been where you are, Ray."
My breath caught.
"What do you mean?"
He placed his cup down, gently. Then leaned back, like someone exhausted from waiting for himself to return from war.
"I used to go to the fourth floor too. To meet… him."
My heart began to pound irregularly.
"You know who he is?"
"He's no one. That's what makes him dangerous."
I stared at him. "You need to explain. What's happening to me? What am I going through?"
He gripped his cup tighter.
"Do you believe your memories are intact?" he asked.
"Do you believe the world you live in is real?"
I looked down. My hands trembled slightly.
"Sometimes I think it's a dream. Sometimes I know I'm awake… but everything still feels wrong."
He nodded.
"Because you're on the border, Ray."
I looked at him.
"The border between what?"
He leaned toward me. His gaze was quiet, but sharp.
"Between reality… and the story you've believed as reality."
I shivered.
"Then… if I'm not in the real world… who's controlling it?"
"Good question," he murmured. "But the wrong one."
He touched the small spoon beside his cup, slowly spinning it.
"The question isn't who controls it, Ray. But—who wrote it."
I froze.
Outside, rain began to fall. But strangely… there was no sound.
Only silence.
And the scent of coffee that suddenly felt too sweet.
"I suppose I have to keep that promise now…" he said without turning, his eyes still fixed on the fogged window.
I tilted my head. "Promise?"
He nodded once, slowly.
"What do you mean? We never—"
"I need to go to the bathroom," he cut in, standing up. His hand rested briefly on my shoulder, like a father unable to say much before a departure.
"Five minutes," he said. "Wait for me."
Then he left.
And never came back.
---
Time faded outside the window, like watercolor on paper too soaked.
The shadows of passersby stretched. The clinking of spoons and glasses aged.
The clock on the wall passed over the numbers like a dream refusing to wake.
Two cups of coffee sat on my table.
One had gone cold. The other untouched.
Sugar settled at the bottom like secrets buried too long.
And I…
Was still there.
Waiting. Without reason. Without certainty.
Until finally…
"Are you possessed or something, Ray?"
The voice was sharp. Came from the side.
I turned—and saw a girl standing with her hands on her hips, her eyebrows furrowed like she wanted to throw a chair.
A waitress's uniform—but clearly not your ordinary waitress.
Her hair half-dyed red. Eyes full of rebellion.
Even her apron looked like it was worn just to challenge anyone who dared ask her to smile.
"It's already evening. You've been sitting here since morning. Not moving, not ordering anything else. You think this is a charity café?"
I blinked. It took time to recognize her face.
"I… I know you…"
She scoffed. "Of course you do. We're classmates. I sit right next to you, dumbass. Need me to write it on your forehead?"
I stayed silent.
Her name… vanished from my mind. But her face was too real to be a dream.
"Why are you working here?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Why? You think I'd be a doctor like your dad who supposedly died but came back to life last week? Or are you thinking you're in some kind of movie?"
Her words cut. But not because of their harshness.
Because…
in them, was a sliver of truth she shouldn't have known.
"My dad… who did I tell that to?"
She squinted. "You said it while crying during P.E. five days ago. Then ran off, hiding behind the storage room."
I bit my lip.
That… happened?
Or just a fragment from another world returning like an old wound?
"I don't understand," I whispered.
She sighed long, then sat across from me.
Picked up one of the cold coffees and drank it without asking.
"Mmm. Just the right sweetness. You've got taste, surprisingly," she muttered.
I looked at her.
"Do you know who the guy sitting with me was?"
She glanced at me, then pointed at the seat she now occupied.
"You mean… the guy sitting in my spot right now?"
I nodded.
Her brow furrowed. "What are you talking about, Ray? You've been sitting alone all this time."
My heart dropped.
"Alone?"
She nodded.
"You came in alone. Sat there since morning. I just arrived a little while ago and was told you've been talking to yourself a few times."
I gripped my knees under the table.
She looked at my face longer than she should've. Then leaned back in her seat.
"There's something wrong with you, Ray."
Her tone had shifted. No longer snide. But not soft either.
"Whether it's in your head… or in your world."
I looked down.
"I… I don't know what's real anymore."
She didn't reply. Just sipped the coffee that wasn't hers, then placed it back with a soft clink.
"Besides," she said, standing, "even in the real world, not everyone knows they're living in the wrong one."
I looked at her.
She walked away, but before entering the kitchen, she turned.
"Tonight, this café closes at ten. If you're still here by then…"
She narrowed her eyes.
"Don't blame anyone if I drag you out by force."
Her steps faded, half-lazy, half-indifferent, toward the kitchen door dimmed by neon light.
As if all questions could hang in the air, like a flickering bulb that never dies.
I stood.
"I need answers," I said.
She stopped. Her back stiffened for a moment, then slowly turned.
Our eyes met—and for a moment, she didn't look fierce,
just someone carrying a burden far too early for her age.
"What do you mean I came alone?"
I stepped forward.
"This morning I talked to a man. He brought me here. He said… he had to keep a promise. But I never made any promise to him."
The café had quieted.
Only the ticking clock and distant spoon clinks remained.
The evening had darkened.
She clicked her tongue, softly, but enough to hear.
"Ray…" she said, her voice lifting something heavy.
"I don't get paid to listen to people's hallucinations."
"But you know something!" I snapped. My voice nearly shook.
My feet still on the café floor, but my mind felt like it was standing on the edge of a cliff.
"You said I talked to myself. You said I said my dad came back from the dead. You know me more than myself!"
She sighed, long and tired.
Her gaze no longer piercing.
Instead, it was like someone who had long been tired of explaining what no one would ever believe.
"I'm working, Ray. I'm a waitress, not a shrink. If you want answers, go ask someone who actually has a license."
She smirked crookedly. There was cynicism in her tone, but also… a faint trace of protection.
"You stopped me," I said quietly.
She looked up, lazily, then began walking again.
"You told me to stay away. You said that place was dangerous. Why?"
She didn't stop this time.
My fingers curled into fists. "Please… at least tell me why you know all this?"
She pushed open the kitchen door, and on the edge of her exit, she turned one last time.
Her eyes dark and sharp like a road with no end.
"Who are you asking, Ray?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"I never knew anything about you. We are just classmates."
The door closed.
No slam. Just silence.
And in the window, my reflection stared back—not like a ghost, but a stranger who had stolen my face.
"What really happened to you?"