The room was too quiet.
Not the kind of silence that calms you ā
the kind that presses against your ears,
as if something is waiting for you to notice it.
Two beds.
One desk.
A window that shouldnāt feel so distant.
The light outside looks normal at first.
Soft. Warm. Almost comforting.
But the longer you stareā¦
the more it feels wrong.
Like the world outside is just slightly out of sync ā
as if it exists, but not for you.
You donāt remember when you got here.
Or why there are two places prepared
when you are clearly alone.
The objects feel staged.
Too clean. Too deliberate.
A cup.
A bag.
A screen that reflects nothing.
And that window.
At night, the room changes.
Not visibly.
Not in a way you can point at and say āthis is different.ā
But you feel it.
The darkness isnāt empty.
It watches.
And sometimesā¦
it feels like something is standing right behind you,
looking out of the same window.
You are not sure if you are the one observing.
Or the one being observed
