Chapter Text
Darkness. A drowning silence.
Was I asleep?
My eyes are wide open, staring at a cracked ceiling, my back presses into a flat, firm surface. There’s a faint wetness on my cheek, and I feel a drop slide off. Instinctively, my finger reaches, brushing the dampness away. Lifting my hand towards my face to get a closer look, my vision adjusts to the unlit space.
Was I crying? No, that can’t be. I mean, why would I? A yawn forces itself out of me as I blink. Once. Twice. God, what time is it? Rolling over to my side, I squint into the dark, eyes searching for my digital alarm clock.
Except there’s no clock. My brows furrow. Something slides off my chest. Huh? My hand fumbles, reaching for what fell off. My fingers ghost the edge of something solid and I pick it up.
A… bone dagger?
Inhaling sharply, my eyes widen as I fling it away from me. It clatters on the floorboards.
What the fuck?
Snapping straight up, I look at my surroundings.
Holy shit.
I. Do. Not. Recognize. This. Room.
My heart screams, my lungs burn, and the back of my throat tightens as I draw breaths in rapid succession. A chill runs up my spine, blood too hot in my veins, my fingers stiffening.
Where the fuck am I?
Swallowing, my mind searches for the last recollection it has. No. Absolutely not. There’s no way. The sound of a horn. Tires skidding. A blinding light-
A laugh escapes me, the sound echoing through the negative space.
This has to be a dream.
It has to be. And if I stop laughing, I’m scared I’ll start believing this is real. Running my fingers through my hair, I steady my breathing. Inhale. Exhale. If this is a dream, it must be a lucid one. I might as well try to enjoy it before I wake up.
Forcing a grin on my face, I start patting around the bed that I’m on, looking for the modern man’s best friend. No, not quite a dog, though it would be comforting having a puppy just about now. For emotional support.
My left hand finds it. A phone! Tilting my head, I observe the shabby old thing. Haven’t seen a model like this in years. Dreams sure have a way with nostalgia.
The screen brightens and I wince from the sudden onslaught. 10:23 PM, Friday, June 13, 2025.
Frowning, I feel a prick of unease. My mind flashes to my most recent memory and I fiercely shake my head. Nope! Not going to think about the fact that this displays the time chronologically; the last time I was awake, it was the same time, same date.
Distractions, distractions. Snapping my fingers, I settle on snooping through this dream phone. As luck would have it, there’s no lock. No passcode, just an organized filing system that stares back at me.
Who the hell labels their folders as “Grind”, “Survival”, and “Organize”?
Grimacing, I tap into “Grind”. A note-taking app, a hospital work portal, a scribing app, MCAT prep app, PDF scanner, networking app, and email. Apps that I have the misfortune of recognizing.
Oh god. I’m in hell. I’ve died and this is student purgatory.
Chuckling at my own terrible, internal joke, I shake my head at the ridiculous thought. Already twenty-five years old, I graduated with a biology degree a few years ago. The dream god is a troll and decided to send a friendly reminder of my undergraduate days. Nice.
A shiver crawls up my forearms as I close out of the “Grind” folder. What’s next? “Survival”?
Tapping on it, I nod knowingly. Classic, responsible apps to keep on hand. A banking app, a finance tracking app, money-wiring app, meal-prep app, and a patient portal.
Logging into the banking app via biometrics, I’m curious to see what dream-me has. Will my finances be the same? Or will I be filthy rich? Maybe a billionaire-
Checking? $44.10. Savings? $238.54. Credit? -$130.76.
Unamused, I stare at the three accounts. Thank god these aren’t my real finances. I know some would kill to have these stats but I’ll pass. I let out a long-suffering sigh and roll my eyes. Of course dream-me is in poverty. Just my luck. At least this isn’t real.
Right?
Onto the final folder. Nothing unusual, just a to-do list, calendar, and alarm clock app. Curious, I tap into the calendar. Oh my god-
June 14 - Daily Goals
- No coffee until AFTER Maison shift (save $)
- Tip count goal: $35 minimum
- Say thank you even if the customer is a dick
- Smile 6x (not fake, ACTUAL SMILES)
- Do NOT look at Ash unless spoken to
- Stay cute = Stay safe
- DO NOT SKIP LEG DAY
- Buy eggs, rice, frozen spinach, ginger
- MCAT studying
- Reply to Wren’s text from Thursday (“sorry just saw lol”)
- Budget review
Well, this doesn’t seem very fun. Customers? Throwback to working in the service industry. No thank you. And who’s Ash? Wren? I don’t know anyone named that. If I see the acronym ‘MCAT’ again, I’m going to flatline for real this time.
Giggling, I shake my head. This is ridiculous. Next up? The calendar.
Saturday, June 14, 2025
10:00 AM - Alarm: “Wake up or die poor 💀☕️"
11:00 AM - Maison de Rêve café shift begins
02:00 PM - Reminder: “Take 5-min break or pass out”
06:00 PM - Shift ends - CLEAN TABLES
06:15 PM - Gym session (Maison Benefit Plan)
08:00 PM - Grocery run - Budget: <$20
10:00 PM - Laundry (coin op downstairs)
11:00 PM - MCAT studying block
12:30 AM - Sleep alarm: “Or you’ll be stupid tomorrow”
Who writes “Wake up or die poor 💀☕️" as their morning alarm?
A snort escapes me. But the copium is wearing off. The eerie feeling I’ve been fighting is clawing up my spine, punishing me for forgetting something obvious.
I freeze.
Maison de Rêve.
My heart skips a beat so hard that I swear I just had a cardiac episode.
Okay, breathe, Evelyn. Let’s ground ourselves. Remember who you are. You’re Evelyn Serelune, you’re turning twenty-six this year. You’re an office worker after you got burnt out from undergraduate, pre-med curriculum. Your favorite hobby after work is playing otome games.
In which your favorite otome game, Sanctum of Light, features Maison de Rêve, the maid café in which the heroine works with four devastatingly attractive love interests-
Hold the fuck up.
My heart thuds in my chest as my thumb hovers over the camera app. If this is a dream, it won’t matter right? It’ll just be me! Office-stressed. Maybe a little bloated. The usual. My thumb moves on its own to switch the camera to front-facing. My breath hitches.
That’s not-
No, wait-
Is that me?
The girl on the screen is pretty. Not me-pretty. But pretty like in an unfamiliar, sharp, exhausted, too-perfect kind of way. Pale skin. Messy, long, dark-brown hair like it hasn’t been washed in days. Hollow brown eyes with dark circles underneath. Lips slightly chapped but still tinted, like someone who tried to look cute but gave up halfway through.
I slam the phone facedown onto the bed, chest heaving, lungs tightening. My hands are shaking and I don’t know if I want to cry or laugh or throw up. Because that wasn’t a cosmetic filter or a weird dream avatar, that was me.
But not me.
My hands are too cold. My heart is racing too fast. I’m breathing too hard. Everything’s too real-
CLAP.
My cheeks sting, a flush of heat spreading, my palms warm from the impact.
I’m still dreaming.
Not awake, I can’t be awake. This can’t be real.
Throwing the covers off, I slide my legs off the bed. My feet touch the cold, wooden floorboards. Through the dark, I find the nearest wall with my hand and I shuffle through the space. Squinting, I make out a few things.
This studio is tiny. Tiny to the point where I don’t see a table or chair anywhere. A small kitchen exists with a bar and two barstools. No couch, no TV, no coffee-table, no art on the walls. Just light from the microwave clock and the soft buzz of the fridge humming in the otherwise silent space.
There’s a shoe rack and wall hooks that seem to be holding scrubs, a maid café outfit, and a cardigan. The only other notable items I see nearby are a foldable study desk, a futon cushion, a stack of textbooks, a school bag, and a tote.
I stumble into the only open doorframe. One of my hands finds the countertop, the other searches for the light source. My fingers find the switch, and I flick it up. The bathroom fills with a subtle glow and I squint, the light blinding me.
My eyes widen as I scream, but no noise comes out.
That girl in the mirror? That’s not me. But it is me.
Staring straight back at me is the same girl I saw in the camera. She’s slender, petite, hair messy, overall look is absolutely disheveled and peak worn out. I touch my face, and the figure in the mirror does the same. I do finger guns, and it matches my movement identically.
Taking a deep breath, I exhale slowly. My head is spinning. My arms might be shaking. My solution? I simply turn off the light in the bathroom and step out, returning to the main space of the studio.
Pacing back and forth by the bed, I mutter under my breath. My voice isn’t mine. But it’s coming out of my throat.
“I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming.”
As if chanting this mantra would make it real.
I throw my head back and laugh, “This can’t be real, I’ve got to be dreaming, but why does my body hurt and why can I smell lavender and vanilla?”
The adrenaline has worn off, and I feel the crash coming. Snapping my fingers, eyes half-lidded, I come up with the only solution I’ve got.
Sleep it off!
“When I wake up, it’ll be my real bedroom with my comfy, soft bed with gorgeous morning light pouring in just like it has for the past few years!”
Snuggling up and feeling reassured, I slip under the covers. This bed sucks but if falling asleep in a dream is what saves me from this nightmare, I’ll do it.
“Goodnight, dream-me. Please never have a lucid dream again.”
I close my eyes. Because if I stay awake, I might realize this is real.
The room smells like absence. Everything’s been cleaned; sheets crisp, desk wiped bare, not a speck of dust on the shelves. It’s sterile, silent, untouched. The kind of clean that erases people. Not a life lived, just a vacancy maintained.
His fingers trail the edge of the desk. The color scheme hasn’t changed in twenty years. Gray walls. Gray carpet. Gray furniture. Every piece designed for function, not comfort. The room is made of expectations; quiet, measured, dull. Like him.
He thought it might feel heavier. A pang. A pull. But all he feels is stillness. No lingering regrets. No fear. Just quiet.
Maybe it’s because he already said goodbye. He never expected for it to be whispered back. They weren’t his friends, no. They couldn’t be. But he was theirs. And that was enough.
It’s not sorrow. Not despair. Just fatigue. His father, a Unity Coalition politician, wanted a legacy. A replica. His mother, Zephyr Entertainment anchor, wanted a headline. A story to flash. They both wanted noise, status, power. His father had once told him, ‘We don’t have the luxury of weakness.’ His mother had only smiled and adjusted the camera angle.
Neither of them ever heard him.
He avoided the creeping dread for as long as he could. The feeling that crawled up his spine as his fingers trembled notetaking at 3 AM. The slow onset of decay that ate away at him over the years. The dining table that had room for three but only one plate set out for a ghost.
Three chairs. Three place settings in the cabinet. Three lives that had never quite touched. He wondered if they’d sell the extra chair after, or if they’d just leave them there, gathering dust like everything else he’d left unsaid.
His life should feel full; there was nothing more he should want. Raised with a silver spoon, he should be grateful. The house was a museum of things that cost more than he was worth. Instead, an ache in his chest by how obsolete it was to be physically comfortable, yet the emptiness inside didn’t ache anymore. It just hummed, a low, constant note in his ribs, like the echo of a bell no one had rung in years.
A waste and a shame that someone like him was born into his position. When it could have been someone else. Anyone else that would’ve, should’ve, cried from sheer gratefulness. That it was a blessing to be here. He ached to feel the same.
He swallows, but it doesn't erase the burning sensation in his lungs. His mind drifts. He forbids himself from choking out the truth. Not to them. Not to himself. Because that would mean telling the truth. And he wouldn’t survive the truth.
A date and time set like an appointment, preparations painstakingly made with what should have more hesitation, and letters unsent that carried the voice that would've quivered had it ushered the words. He had read that the body’s instinct was to survive. That instinct had long faded, drowned in whiskey and smoked away in the quiet hours of the day.
He had practiced tying the knot, once, twice, a dozen times, until his fingers stopped shaking. Until the motion became muscle memory. Until the terror of failure was worse than the act itself. Because he couldn’t afford to fail, not if it meant witnessing the disappointment from others.
What terrified him wasn’t the act. It was the after; the way his father would clear his throat and move on to the next speech, the way his mother would pause for half a second before adjusting her earpiece. The way the world would keep spinning, indifferent.
Just a few more days.
He doesn’t say it out loud. Just a weary gaze on the calendar with the date circled like it mattered. As if it wasn’t a quiet goodbye.
Kneeling by the bed, he presses his forehead into the mattress. He doesn’t pray. He doesn’t cry. He just waits for the weight of his own body to feel enough. And when it doesn’t, it no longer aches like it used to.
He had rehearsed this moment in his head a hundred times. He had practiced the words. He had practiced the silence. He had never practiced the way his throat would close up, the way his hands would forget how to hold a pen.
One final weekend, he tells himself. He calls it honesty. It feels like a lie he’s too tired to argue with. He doesn’t know where he'll go after the end. He just hopes no one will notice. That him fading away will be like the mist dispersing before the sun. Gone before anyone realizes he was there at all.
Far away, in the Soul Plane, a hearth flickers. The goddess tending it pauses.
Another, with chaos in her smile, simply watches.
The game has begun.