Change my thinking.
Seraphina had said that to so many tis, like a mantra, like a warning. I had always brushed it off, tucked it away in the back of my mind like a note scribbled on a scrap of paper. But this ti, it hit differently. Her words didn't just linger; they echoed, growing louder and louder until they beca impossible to ignore.
My chair scraped the floor when I abruptly stood. The shrill sound seed to slice through the murmuring hall, turning heads. Rachel, eyes wide, called after . "Arthur," she said, a mixture of confusion and concern painting her features. "We have afternoon classes—are you alright?"
Crack.
Sothing in my mind fractured with that single word. I cannot fully explain the noise—whether it was internal or external—but it rang in my ears like a shard of glass snapping under unbearable pressure. A dizzy spell followed, as though the entire hall shifted out of focus. My breath hitched, and for a mont, I wasn't sure if I was hearing my own thoughts echoing in my skull or if the world around was literally tearing itself apart.
"I'm… not feeling well," I managed, my voice distant to my own ears. I clutched at the air as though it might give balance, but it was intangible, slipping through my fingers. I turned from Rachel, ignoring her outstretched hand. My body pivoted on autopilot, and I left the study hall with unsteady steps.
Walking blurred into running. One mont, I was pacing briskly down a corridor, the next I was sprinting past startled classmates. The Academy's ornate walls, lined with holo-displays of upcoming events, seed to twist inward, narrowing into a labyrinth that offered no escape. Every stride echoed, a hamring tattoo that reflected my pounding heartbeat.
There was no plan—just a primal urge to flee, to outrun the tumult inside my head. Doors and windows flashed by, flickers of illusions or advanced decorations I'd normally admire. But now they felt like threatening shapes, imposing and stifling. My lungs burned, but I kept going, driven by the crack I heard in my mind. It was like a fault line had opened in my psyche, each new step jarring it wider.
I reached my dorm room without recalling how I navigated the labyrinth. One mont, I was in that never-ending corridor, the next I was stumbling through my door, and a suffocating hush enveloped as it clicked shut behind . My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the floor in a heap, the polished surface cool against my sweating skin.
Crack.
Again. Louder, sharper, as if a giant hand was crushing delicate glass from the inside. I hissed in pain, hands flying to my head, trying in vain to press the noise out. My pulse hamred in my ears. My thoughts frayed, scattering across the surfaces of my mories. I felt reality shift again, or maybe it was my perception that lurched. The resulting vertigo made want to scream.
Ti lost its grip. I couldn't tell if only seconds or entire hours passed. My breathing was ragged, each exhalation quivering as I tried to keep from sobbing. The ache in my chest and head rged, forming a tight coil of distress. So intangible barrier—the one I'd erected around my heart, my mind, my entire life—had started to crumble, and it was terrifying.
Crack!
The final blow, a ntal sound like a thousand mirror shards raining onto a marble floor. My entire being clenched. I curled into myself, pressing my forehead to the floor. My body shivered. The illusions, the self-narrative I'd spun, all of it was unraveling in real ti.
I rembered, hazily, how I used to think of everyone around as if they were characters in a grand story. Their roles, their arcs, the inevitabilities—none of it was real, was it? That was the excuse I told myself. That the world was a novel, a script, and I, the observer, was detached from true consequence. If sothing tragic happened, it was "just part of the plot." If soone succeeded or failed, it was "written to be so." They weren't real to . They were… placeholders. Or worse, objects to manipulate.
And now, those illusions, those ntal constructs, shattered. The sense of control that ca from believing I was above the narrative, that the people around were non-playable roles, dissolved like sugar in water.
I gasped, coughed, and forced my eyes open. The reality of my small room felt oppressive. No illusions softened the corners; no wise narrator's voice explained the next chapter. Instead, I was just a person, stuck on a cold floor with the weight of a thousand regrets pounding in my skull.
"What… have I been doing?" I muttered aloud, a broken rasp. My voice trembled, unrecognizable. mories flooded in with painful clarity: the tis I brushed off Cecilia's attempts to connect, mocking her manipulative aura without acknowledging her real feelings. The tis I ignored Rachel's unwavering kindness, taking it for granted as a predetermined trait of her "character." The tis Seraphina spoke truths to , urging to see the world for what it was, and I dismissed them as side dialogue in a novel.
They weren't side characters. They were living, breathing humans with emotions, motivations, vulnerability. And I had treated them all like props. The realization hit like a physical punch, and I doubled over, hugging my knees. My nails bit into my arms as I wrestled the wave of sha.
The next day or so passed in a fog. I barely left the floor. I drifted in and out of shallow dozing, nightmares tangling with half-conscious regrets. Hunger pricked my stomach, but I couldn't muster the will to eat. My phone beeped occasionally with ssages or class reminders. I ignored them. The only thing that seed real was the breakdown in my mind, as though I had to soak in the consequences before I could reerge.
During that ti, I rembered glimpses: Rachel's gentle concern when I was ill, Cecilia's teasing comnts that sotis veiled genuine worry, even Lucifer's stoic presence that might have shielded once or twice. Each mory was no longer just a snippet in a story. It felt heartbreakingly human, raw, as if I'd been colorblind and was only now seeing hues for the first ti. I realized the hollowness of the emotional distance I had created. Was I this blind to their struggles, their joys, their pains? The question reverberated.
On the third day, sothing in shifted. Maybe it was survival instinct. Maybe it was a spark of defiance. Lying on the floor, wallowing in guilt and sorrow, couldn't fix anything. Slowly, I propped myself up. My limbs felt weak, a dull ache radiating along my muscles. My reflection in the mirror across the room looked gaunt, eyes ringed with dark circles, hair disheveled.
I took a shaky breath, placed a hand on my chest, and felt my heart beating. Steady, persistent, real. I stared at my reflection, letting the last vestiges of denial drain away. There were no chapters, no cunning author controlling my strings. It was just , stumbling along in a complicated, real world. The question was: could I stand, literally and taphorically?
I forced myself to my feet. My head spun. My knees wobbled. I braced against a shelf, rummaging for a bottle of water. Gulping down half of it, I realized how dehydrated I was. This is real. This is what your life is like if you don't pretend it's all a ga. I reminded myself. The dryness in my throat, the hunger pangs in my stomach, the trembling of my hands—these were incontrovertible facts, not re script details.
This was real.
I was real.
Reviews
All reviews (0)