Willian threw himself onto the bed with a heavy sigh—the kind that carries the weight of a wasted day and the guilt of a binge-watching session that went way too far. The room was bathed in a bluish gloom, cut only by the faint glow of the monitor he'd forgotten to turn off—a silent reminder of his lack of discipline.
He turned to one side. The sheet was cold but scratchy, like it had been washed too many times. The pillowcase smelled faintly of fabric softener mixed with dried sweat. He turned to the other side. The seam of his T-shirt scraped against his shoulder. A low hum from the fan filled the silence, constant and irritating, like an invisible mosquito.
"I should've gone to sleep earlier..."
His body was exhausted, but his mind was in overdrive. Thoughts collided, each more useless than the last. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force sleep—as if sheer willpower could shut off consciousness.
"I have to wake up in three hours... but GoT is just too good. I couldn't stop halfway through the season..."
His breathing was shallow. The air felt thick, as if the room had grown heavier. He tried to take a deep breath, but his chest ached—not from physical pain, but from accumulated anxiety.
"Maybe I should've stopped after episode six... it was already late..."
The mattress sank beneath his weight but didn't embrace him. The pillow was too warm, like it had absorbed every thought he'd poured into it. The blanket tangled around his legs, tightening like a fabric trap.
"Aaaah, no use complaining now. What am I doing? Stop thinking. I need to sleep! Sleep! Sleep..."
He turned again. The bed felt smaller. The room felt smaller. The world felt smaller. And his mind? Massive. A labyrinth of voices, images, and disconnected ideas.
"I'm so tired."
The sound of a car passing outside seemed too loud. A creak from the bookshelf sounded like a gunshot. Every noise became an obstacle. Every thought, a wall.
He tried counting sheep. Imagining a field. Recalling breathing techniques. Nothing worked. Sleep was right there, within reach—but it slipped away like sand through his fingers.
And then... a moment of surrender. His body gave in. His mind slowed. His breathing deepened. His consciousness began to dissolve, like ink in water.
Silence.
The silence wrapped around him like an invisible blanket. The hum of the fan vanished. The warmth of the blanket transformed into something else—deeper, denser. Willian didn't know if he was asleep or if he'd been swallowed by a comforting void.
He was floating.
No bed. No room. No body.
It felt like being suspended in warm liquid, immersed in a bath of silk. No pain. No weight. Just pure, absolute comfort.
"Hmmmm... so warm, so pleasant. I've never felt this comfortable. I didn't know it was even possible to feel this good... I don't want to move at all..."
But something was wrong.
He tried to move a finger. Nothing. Tried to open his eyes. Total darkness.
Panic surged like a cold wave, shattering the warmth around him. His heart—or whatever was left of it—raced. His once-peaceful mind began to scream.
"What the hell is this?! I can't move—wait, I can't even open my damn eyes? What's happening?! Oh my god, help me! Aaaah, I need to calm down..."
He tried to breathe deeply, but there was no air. Only growing pressure, as if he were being pushed from the inside. The space around him began to contract. The warmth turned suffocating. Comfort became a prison.
"Breathe. It'll be fine... right?"
Anxiety.
The pressure intensified. He felt his body—small, fragile, compressed. Like he was being squeezed through an invisible tunnel. Muffled sounds emerged—distant, distorted. A heartbeat. An echo. A scream.
"Wait... am I moving? No—it feels like I'm slipping, like I'm being sucked into something..."
He tried to resist, but there was no escape. It was like being dragged by an invisible current, directionless, powerless.
Gluuuuup.
A wet sound, like something being ejected.
"Aaaaaaaa!"
A sharp, feminine scream. Too loud. Too real.
"It's a boy!"
A raspy, triumphant voice—an old woman.
Light struck him like a blade. His eyes—tiny, newly formed—opened for the first time. Everything was blurry, but he saw. A wrinkled face. Sunken eyes. A smile that felt more like a threat.
He tried to scream, but all that came out was a weak, instinctive cry.
"What the hell is happening to my life?"