The alarm went off for the third time before Alan reacted.
It wasn't a sudden movement that got him out of bed, but an uncomfortable, persistent feeling, as if his body had forgotten how to rest. He opened his eyes slowly, and the first thought was that something was wrong… although he couldn't say exactly what.
The ceiling of his room was the same. The pale light filtering through the window announced a new day. Everything was in order.
He wasn't.
He got up slowly, resting his forearms on his knees. He felt tense muscles, as if he had spent the night carrying weight. His arms ached in a strange, deep way, and when he moved his fingers, he noticed stiffness he didn't remember having before.
He had slept.
That he knew.
What he didn't know was whether he had rested.
He ran a hand over his face and noticed the tight, hot skin. His throat was dry, and a salty taste in his mouth made him frown. He got up to drink water, swallowing quickly, as if his body demanded more than hydration.
In front of the bathroom mirror, he paused.
The dark circles were there. More pronounced than the day before. His eyes, normally alert, had a dull, tired shine. He looked… older. Not by much, just enough for him to notice.
"Stress," he murmured, resting his hands on the sink.
Stress explained a lot. Academic pressure, a changed routine, late-night readings, accumulated lack of sleep. Everything made sense if he looked at it with enough logic.
He straightened up, determined.
He wouldn't let his mind play tricks on him.
He showered quickly, dressed without overthinking, and left the dorm with the quiet determination of someone who just wants to get through the day. The fresh morning air hit his face, but it didn't entirely clear the weight he carried.
As he walked toward the campus, an insistent idea crossed his mind, uncomfortable and annoying.
It's just fatigue.
Nothing more.
And as a doctor in training, he knew that sometimes the only thing left to do… was endure.
Dayit saw him before he saw her.
Alan walked toward the main building with his shoulders slightly hunched, his pace slower than usual. He wasn't distracted by his phone or reading notes, as he usually did; he simply moved forward, eyes fixed ahead, as if the ground set the rhythm of his breathing.
"Alan."
He took an extra second to react.
"Hm?" He turned his head and then forced an automatic, polite smile. "Good morning."
Dayit raised an eyebrow for just a moment. She didn't say anything yet. She walked beside him, adjusting her pace, watching him out of the corner of her eye.
"They don't look good," she finally said. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Yes," he replied quickly. "Normally."
Too quickly.
Dayit didn't press. Not yet.
They entered the classroom with the rest of the students and sat near the back. Alan set his backpack on the floor and opened his notebook with mechanical movements, as if his body worked out of habit rather than will.
The professor began to speak.
Vascular pathologies. Diagrams. Technical terms.
Alan listened… or tried to. He copied words, arrows, and diagrams, but at times the letters seemed to lose their shape. Not because he was sleepy, but because his head felt heavy, as if someone had added weight behind his eyes.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The classroom was still there.
But something in his chest felt heavy, dense, as if breathing required conscious effort. He rested his elbow on the desk and his temple on his knuckles, closing his eyes for just a second.
Only one.
"Alan."
Dayit's voice snapped him awake.
He opened his eyes, heart racing, and took a moment to orient himself. Several eyes turned toward him. The professor cleared his throat, uncomfortable.
"Any problem, Mr. Tolani?"
"No," Alan replied, sitting up straight immediately. "Sorry."
The professor continued the class, with a brief evaluating glance before doing so.
Dayit leaned in slightly toward him.
"You were falling asleep," she whispered.
"No," Alan murmured, lowering his voice. "I just… closed my eyes."
"Sure."
She didn't sound convinced.
For the rest of the class, Alan forced himself to stay upright and attentive, even as his eyelids felt heavy, like they had been fighting gravity for hours. Every time the sound of the marker scraped the board, a shiver ran down his spine, inexplicable.
When the bell finally rang, Alan exhaled without realizing he had been holding his breath.
"Let's get coffee," Dayit said, giving him no choice. "And this time, it's not a kind gesture, it's a medical intervention."
"Since when do you diagnose without prior evaluation?" he tried to joke.
"Since my patient seemed about to faint over a desk."
They walked to the cafeteria. Alan felt his legs unusually heavy, as if he had walked miles instead of just crossing campus. While waiting for the coffee, he leaned on the counter, closing his eyes for one more second than necessary.
Go out.
That was what he thought.
The smell of salt.
He frowned and opened his eyes immediately.
"Does anything hurt?" Dayit asked, now genuinely concerned.
Alan shook his head.
"No. Just… tired."
She watched him silently for a few seconds.
"Alan," she said finally. "You've been here three days. And each day, you look worse."
He gave a crooked smile.
"I promise I'm not dying."
"You'd better not be," she replied, pushing the coffee into his hands. "Because I plan to watch over you."
Alan wrapped his fingers around the cup, appreciating the warmth.
It's just fatigue, he told himself again.
But a lingering certainty settled in his chest:
It wasn't just that.
And he knew it.
He didn't notice when it happened.
Alan was sitting at one of the long library tables, a book open in front of him, his finger marking a line he had already read three times without understanding. The letters began to lose shape; not because he was sleepy, but because his head felt heavy, as if someone had added weight behind his eyes.
He blinked.
The scent changed.
It wasn't abrupt. There was no darkness, no fall. Just… transition.
The air grew humid, thick, heavy with salt and something else: a metallic, sour tang that made his throat tighten. The sound came afterward. Water hitting wood. A constant splashing. Distant, low voices he couldn't fully distinguish.
He was on the stern of a ship.
He knew it without question.
The floor beneath his feet was wet, slippery. He saw buckets tipping, dirty water spilling over the edges, algae and nets being dragged from side to side. A couple of men worked without noticing him, focused on cleaning, repeating movements they had memorized.
No rush.
No danger.
No excitement.
Just work.
Alan didn't see himself, but he was there. He felt the constant rocking of the ship, a sway that didn't make him seasick because it had become part of his body. His hands didn't move, but he knew what came next. He knew how the routine ended. He knew how many times he had been there.
The sea opened behind the ship, dark and deep.
Then, as if someone had slammed a book shut—
"Alan."
The sound of his name didn't belong to the ship.
He blinked again.
The library surrounded him once more.
The murmur of students, the rustle of pages, the white light from the ceiling. His heart raced, and a strange pressure filled his chest, as if he had been holding his breath without realizing.
He lowered his gaze.
His finger still marked the same line.
Not even a minute had passed.
Alan closed the book slowly, rested both forearms on the table, and let his head drop between his shoulders.
"It wasn't a memory," he murmured. "It can't be."
Memories didn't work like that.
They didn't arrive complete, with smells, sounds, and a logic that wasn't his own.
That had been something else.
Or worse.
An imagination too active, trying to fill empty spaces.
He forced himself to sit up and pack his things awkwardly. He needed air. He needed to move. He needed not to close his eyes.
That night, Alan didn't allow himself to sleep.
He sat on the bed, back against the wall, the lights off, the phone resting on his lap, unused. Fatigue weighed on his bones, eyelids, jaw clenched from holding it too tightly without realizing.
Every time he closed his eyes for more than a few seconds, the rocking returned.
No clear images.
No voices.
Just the feeling.
The sea rocking him from within.
So he chose not to.
If sleeping meant dreaming, he wouldn't sleep.
If the problem was rest, he would remove it from the equation.
Logical.
Temporary.
Controllable.
He convinced himself of that as the night progressed and the clock changed hours without him moving. He convinced himself as his body betrayed him with small jolts, false falls that wake you even when seated.
He didn't dream.
But he didn't rest either.
By the time the sky began to lighten outside the window, Alan's eyes were open and his mind exhausted, as if he had spent the entire night underwater, holding his breath.
"Just endure," he whispered. "It's only a tough week."
Not knowing the problem wasn't how long he could stay awake.
But how much longer he could pretend the sea wasn't waiting for him every time he closed his eyes.