Am I alive?
Darkness. Absolute. Suffocating.
My thoughts splinter and collide inside my skull like echoes without a source. I can't hold onto them—can't even steer them. They slam into something unseen and rebound warped, unfamiliar.
How long have I been trapped here?
Voices drift around me. Close enough to brush my ears, too distant to understand. Fractured syllables. Meaningless noise.
Is this real?
Or is my mind creating one last illusion before shutting down?
Who am I?
I don't want to disappear. I don't want to dissolve into nothing. I want to be real. Solid. Present.
Wait.
Did I just open my eyes?
I blink. Light pierces my vision, sharp and invasive. A white ceiling stretches above me—disturbingly familiar. A wave of déjà vu crashes through my chest, stealing my breath.
It isn't pure white. The surface is uneven, speckled in faint variations of the same sterile shade.
A weak sound escapes me.
"…Ah."
Understanding settles slowly.
I'm alive.
I can feel. I can think.
I move my fingers. Then my arms. My legs. My body responds instantly, decisively—proof that I exist.
I turn my head carefully, afraid sudden movement might shatter something fragile inside me. A bedside table comes into view.
White. Blindingly white. The kind of white that erases thought.
A glass of water sits on it.
It becomes everything.
I grab it and drink too fast, draining it in one breath. Water spills down my neck, soaking into the collar of my gown.
All I wanted—
Was to go back.
Back where?
I don't know.
"Damn."
The word slips out before I can stop it. A violent shiver runs down my spine—not from the cold water, but from the realization that follows.
Tick.
Tick.
An uneven rhythm.
Warmth trails down my cheek.
Am I crying?
My lower lip trembles. A tight knot forms in my throat, making every breath sting.
I exist.
I'm alive.
I stay like that for minutes, forcing myself not to break. Gradually, the storm inside me softens. The silence of the room seeps inward, leaving behind something fragile and uncertain.
Footsteps approach.
Measured. Calm. Familiar.
The door opens gently.
A woman in her late twenties steps inside. Her expression is neutral—controlled. Professional.
Then her eyes widen.
Shock overtakes her face.
"Huh?"
I instinctively glance toward the doorway.
She's gone.
As if she had never been there.
Before I can process it, three men in medical uniforms enter—followed by the sound of those same footsteps. The same woman appears behind them.
One of the men approaches. Mid-fifties. Warm smile. Kind, calculated eyes.
The others begin checking the machines around my bed.
"Welcome back," he says softly.
I don't respond.
"I'm the physician overseeing your case. Dr. Notch Jack. Neurology."
He studies my face.
"You were in a car accident on December twenty-third, two thousand nineteen."
A pause.
"You've been in a coma for three years."
Three years.
The words hit like a physical blow.
A coma.
I stare at him. My mind refuses to process it.
"Vitals are stable," one of the others says. "All readings normal."
Another steps toward me.
I flinch instinctively, pulling my hand away.
Don't touch me.
I don't say it. I don't need to.
He freezes. "I'm sorry. May I examine you?"
I nod.
He checks my pulse, then shines a small light into my eyes.
For a moment, everything goes blank.
"Miss?"
"I'm… fine," I whisper.
His expression tightens. "You were unresponsive for nearly ten minutes."
Dr. Notch moves closer.
"Can you tell me your name?"
I open my mouth.
Nothing.
Who am I?
…I don't know.
Silence stretches between us.
"As expected," he says calmly. "You're experiencing memory loss."
He sits beside the bed, removing his glasses.
"After prolonged comas—especially lasting years—the brain can trigger protective mechanisms. Amnesia is common."
He looks at me steadily.
"We'll support you through this. Your memories may return gradually."
Tears slide down my face.
I can't speak.
He places a careful hand on my shoulder.
"I'd like to be alone," I whisper.
After a brief exchange, they leave.
The woman lingers by the door. She offers a small, reassuring smile.
"Call if you need anything. You're safe."
The door closes.
Silence returns.
You're safe.
Who am I?
How many times have I asked that already?
Was I kind? Cruel? Loud? Quiet?
Did I laugh too easily—or hide behind it?
What did I sound like when I was angry?
What color are my eyes in a mirror I can't remember?
Did I love someone?
Did someone love me?
My family.
Do I have one?
Was I alone before this?
Or so alone that no one is waiting now?
Was I a bad person?
I want to know myself.
Mom. Dad. Anyone.
Save me.
The words barely escape my lips.
Please. I don't want to stay lost.
My thoughts feel dangerous.
I try to stand. The room tilts violently.
I'm not sure if I fall.
"I don't want to die," I whisper. "Not like this."
Something is wrong.
My chest tightens suddenly. My heart pounds violently, as if striking the inside of my skull.
Thump.Thump.Thump.
The sound swallows everything. The monitor beside me shifts into an erratic rhythm.
Am I dying?
No.
This can't be real.
But the pain is.
My body convulses. My lungs refuse to cooperate.
I try to inhale.
It's shallow. Insufficient.
Like drowning without water.
I'm already lying down. I haven't moved.
And yet something is terribly wrong.
The door bursts open.
The same woman rushes in.
"Breathe! Look at me—breathe!"
She wipes the tears from my face. For a split second, I feel something close to safety.
"I don't know what's happening," I choke out. "I'm scared."
"It's a panic response," she says gently. "You're okay."
Her voice is steady. Grounding.
Once my breathing slows, she prepares an injection.
"A mild sedative. It'll help."
I nod.
As heaviness spreads through my body, I ask, "What's your name?"
She only smiles.
My gaze drifts to the left side of her chest.
No badge.
Suddenly—
She isn't where she was.
She's closer.
I didn't see her move.
The air feels thinner.
Her fingers curl around my collar.
I don't feel pressure.
I feel space disappearing.
She's smiling.
Not wider.
Longer.
Her eyes don't blink.
I wait.
They don't.
Nothing happens.
And that's worse.
Then—
My muscles go slack.
Like a cord unplugged.
Darkness doesn't fall.
It seeps in.
ding… ding…
[WARNING][System Load Error][Conditions Not Met]
What is this?