Devendra woke up before the alarm.
That alone felt wrong.
Morning usually arrived in fragments—half-dreams, missing hours, his name feeling unfamiliar in his own head. But today, his eyes opened sharply, as if someone had pulled him out of sleep by force.
His heart was already racing.
Nothing had happened.
That scared him.
He sat up slowly, waiting for the familiar pressure behind his skull, the whisper that never used words but still spoke clearly.
Nothing.
The silence felt artificial.
Like the quiet before glass breaks.
At breakfast, his mother placed food in front of him. The spoon shook slightly in her hand. She noticed everything now—the way Devendra stared too long, the way his jaw clenched when plates clinked, the way his shoulders stayed raised as if expecting impact.
"Eat slowly," she said.
Devendra nodded.
He took a bite.
Stopped.
"…Did I always sit here?" he asked suddenly.
His mother froze.
"Yes," she replied after a pause. "You like the window."
Devendra looked at the window.
"I don't remember liking it."
At school, time slipped again.
Not completely—just enough to feel wrong.
The first class ended before he realized it had begun. In the second, the teacher's voice stretched and bent, syllables losing shape. Devendra copied words from the board without understanding them.
What grade am I in?
The thought appeared out of nowhere.
His hand tightened around the pen.
How long have I been here?
Someone laughed behind him.
The sound pierced straight through his chest.
His vision blurred—not darkness, not white—just distortion, like the world had been printed wrong.
Devendra stood up.
The teacher called his name.
"Devendra, where are you going?"
"I—" His voice failed. He tried again. "I need air."
He didn't wait for permission.
In the bathroom, Devendra gripped the sink and stared into the mirror.
The face staring back looked… younger than he felt.
Or older.
He couldn't tell anymore.
"Pick one," he muttered. "Just pick one."
His reflection didn't answer.
But something else did.
Not a voice.
A feeling.
Cold amusement.
Not hers—she was gone—but the shape she had left behind.
A scar doesn't talk, but it still hurts.
Devendra slid down against the wall and sat on the cold tiles. His breathing came shallow, uneven.
You survived, his mind told him.
That doesn't mean you're safe.
That afternoon, the psychiatrist asked him to draw.
"Anything," she said.
Devendra stared at the paper for a long time.
Then he drew a house.
Too neat.
No doors.
No windows.
Only walls.
"What is this?" the doctor asked gently.
"A place," Devendra replied.
"Who lives there?"
He hesitated.
"…No one."
The doctor didn't correct him.
At night, Devendra lay awake again.
But this time, something was different.
He wasn't waiting for her.
He was waiting for himself.
His chest felt tight, his thoughts scattered—but somewhere beneath the noise, a thin thread held.
Fragile.
Unreliable.
Still there.
"I'm still here," he whispered into the dark.
The room didn't respond.
And for now—
That was enough to keep him breathing.