Page 8

Eight

Warmth wrapped around me. Soft. Golden. Safe.

I folded another shirt, smoothing my hands over the fabric. Neat. Perfect. Just like everything else. My drawers were clean. The air smelled like vanilla and sunlight. My body moved with ease, flowing from one task to the next, each motion effortless.

I didn’t need to think. Thinking was hard.

Look at how well you’re doing.

A sigh slipped from my lips. My shoulders relaxed, my muscles loose, my mind quiet.

Stay here. Stay warm.

I reached for the next shirt. Folded. Smoothed. Perfect.

Then—

A sharp noise, splintering through the haze.

I flinched, blinking fast, fingers jerking against the fabric. My phone. It was ringing, the shrill tone wrong, cutting through the warmth like a knife.

Something cracked inside me.

The golden haze faltered.

My pulse spiked.

I fumbled for my phone, nearly knocking over the basket. The screen glowed too bright, the name on display sinking into my gut like a stone.

Dr. Reynolds.

My therapist.

I stared, heart pounding, stomach twisting.

Why was she calling me?

I haven’t missed any sessions.

Right?

The warmth was gone. Completely. The room felt colder, the air thinner. My skin prickled as a slow, creeping awareness settled in. My hands were shaking. My breath came too fast. The laundry was done. The entire apartment was spotless.

My stomach lurched. When had I done all of this?

The phone kept ringing.

I answered.

“Dawn?” Dr. Reynolds’ voice was calm, steady. Concerned. “I wanted to check in. You’ve missed two sessions.”

My throat closed up. “Two?”

“Yes. Did you ever get them?”

I pulled the phone away from my ear. Opened my texts.

Unread messages.

I never saw them.

I never saw them.

Dr. Reynolds’ voice softened. “Your friend called me. They were worried. Said you hadn’t answered them either.”

A chill slid down my spine. My fingers gripped the phone tighter as I forced myself to process what she was saying. My friend? Who? When?

I tried to remember the last time I reached out to anyone. Days blurred together, an endless stream of light and warmth and quiet obedience.

Maybe… maybe I had just been on autopilot. It happened before, back when things were bad. I used to go through the motions, just trying to survive. This was no different.

I inhaled sharply. “I’ve been… distracted.”

Silence stretched between us, long and heavy. Then?—

“Dawn, are you safe?”

The question hit like a slap. My stomach twisted, my body going rigid. Was I?

I was eating, wasn’t I? Sleeping. Taking care of myself. But was that me? Or was it just something that had been done to me?

I forced a laugh, but it came out thin, fragile. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just—maybe I need a break.”

Dr. Reynolds paused. “A break?”

The thought formed fully for the first time. It felt right. Necessary. I needed to leave. To get out, to go somewhere away from them. I was suffocating, wasn’t I?

“Yes. I think I just need to get away for a little bit.” I was already moving, walking to my laptop, searching for train tickets. “Clear my head.”

A cold shiver trailed down my spine.

I flinched, my fingers trembling over the keyboard, trying to shake off the unease building in my gut.

“I’ll check in when I’m back,” I said quickly. “I promise.”

Dr. Reynolds didn’t sound convinced. “Alright, Dawn. Just… call me if you need anything.”

I hung up before she could say more.

Packing was easy. But as I zipped up my bag, an unsettling realization struck me—I couldn't remember the last time I left the apartment for more than a grocery run. The thought made my hands hesitate, fingers curling into the fabric of my clothes. How had I been so content in a routine that didn't involve stepping outside?

A bag. Just a few things. No keepsakes. Nothing too personal.

I moved through the apartment on autopilot, my body tight, head too clear. The haze was gone, but in its place was something too sharp. Too raw.

The dolls sat on the shelf. Exactly where I left them.

I hesitated.

Their presence felt wrong.

Not just off. Wrong .

A pressure settled in my chest, heavy and suffocating. I had never felt their absence before. Not like this. It was wrong. Everything was wrong.

I inhaled sharply. Leave. Just leave.

I grabbed my keys. Opened the door.

Stepped outside. Locked them in.

The moment the door shut, I exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Then I left them behind.

The train ride was long. Too quiet. The hum of the engine, the distant chatter of passengers, the occasional crackle of an intercom announcement—sounds I hadn’t realized I missed until now. My world had been so insulated, so controlled, that the unpredictability of real life felt almost overwhelming.

At first, the golden warmth tried to creep back in, a soft, honeyed pull urging me to turn around. My fingers twitched against my lap, my pulse slowing, thoughts growing sluggish. Just one stop. Just a quick break. Then I could go home.

I inhaled sharply, pressing my nails into my palm. No. This was real. This was me. The train was real. The people around me were real. The way my muscles ached, the way my stomach curled with unease—all of it was mine.

For the first time in days, I fought against the haze.

I forced myself to sit up straighter, gripping the edge of my seat as the train rumbled forward. The rhythmic motion beneath me, the faint scent of coffee from someone’s thermos, the scratch of fabric as I adjusted my coat—all of it grounded me. These were real things, tangible things, not the distant, dreamlike existence I had been trapped in. No warmth. No whispers. Just the steady clatter of the train, the distant hum of other passengers, the faint scent of coffee and worn fabric.

I checked my phone again. Still no messages. But I had missed so many. What if there were other things I had ignored? Appointments, bills, moments with friends I let slip through my fingers? I scrolled through my emails, scanning subject lines. Half of them looked unfamiliar, like they belonged to someone else's life. My life had been moving without me, and I was only just realizing it.

I stared at the empty inbox. Maybe this really was just me. Maybe I’d been spiraling. Maybe I had done this to myself.

But the silence felt… unnatural.

Wrong .

I curled my fingers against my palm, pressing hard enough to leave crescent marks in my skin. It hurt—but the pain was real, a sharp contrast to the fuzziness that had clouded my days—fucking weeks. I needed this. I needed to remember what it felt like to think, to decide, to exist outside of routine.

A weekend away. That was all. Just a few days. Then I’d come back, and everything would be normal again.

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in what seemed like forever, I slept without dreams.