ViViD: Rewind

There are mornings that feel like beginnings.

And there are mornings that feel like nothing at all.

Mine always felt like nothing.

The fan above my bed turned in slow, tired circles. It made a soft rattling noise, like it was struggling to keep going — like it understood me. The air in my room felt warm but empty, like the kind of silence that presses against your chest instead of floating around it.

I stared at the ceiling.

I didn’t know how long I’d been awake.

Time felt strange when you didn’t care about it.

The sunlight coming through the curtains touched the walls, but even the light felt dull. Everything looked washed out — like someone had taken the color from my world and forgotten to put it back.

I pushed myself up slowly.

My body felt heavy, even though I had slept. Or at least, I thought I had slept. Most nights blurred together. Sleep and waking felt the same when your mind never really rested.

My feet touched the cold floor.

The room felt too quiet.

Not peaceful.

Just empty.

I walked to the bathroom without turning on the light. I didn’t need it. I already knew what I would see.

A tired boy.

Messy hair.

Eyes that looked like they had forgotten how to feel.

The mirror greeted me like a stranger pretending to be familiar.

I looked at myself.

I didn’t hate what I saw.

I just didn’t feel anything.

And somehow… that felt worse.

“…Good morning,” I whispered.

My reflection didn’t answer.

It just stared back.

I moved through my routine like I was following instructions I didn’t remember agreeing to.

Brush teeth.

Wash face.

Change clothes.

Everything felt automatic. Like I was walking through a life that belonged to someone else and I was just borrowing it.

The kitchen smelled like nothing.

No warm bread.

No coffee.

No voices.

Just silence.

A chair.

A table.

And a glass of water waiting for me.

I stared at the chair across from mine.

It was always empty.

I sat down slowly, resting my elbows on the cold table surface.

I tried to remember the last time I felt close to someone.

Really close.

Not just smiling in front of them.

Not just laughing when I was supposed to.

But feeling understood.

I couldn’t.

My chest tightened slightly, but I ignored it. I was used to that feeling. It was like a quiet ache that never left, just shifted positions.

I drank the water.

It tasted like nothing.

Just like everything else.

When I stepped outside, the world looked normal.

People walked by.

Cars passed.

Birds sat quietly on wires.

Life was happening.

Just not inside of me.

The sky was pale blue, but it felt fake — like a painted ceiling over a room too big for me to fill.

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and started walking.

Each step felt slow.

Each breath felt tired.

I wondered, not for the first time, what it felt like to wake up and want to exist.

To feel excited.

To feel warm.

To feel like you mattered.

Instead, I just kept walking.

And I didn’t notice the first crack in the sky above me.

Not yet.

I walked the same streets I had walked a hundred times before, yet everything felt off.

The pavement under my shoes seemed harder, colder than usual. The trees that lined the streets swayed lazily in the wind, but their leaves barely made a sound. Even the birds seemed distant, like echoes of life rather than life itself.

I didn’t see anyone I knew. Not that it would have mattered. Conversations felt empty now, words I said to people floating away before they could touch meaning. I had stopped trying to make connections a long time ago.

By the time I reached the park, my backpack had slipped down one shoulder. I dropped it to the ground and sat on the bench, staring at the pond. The water reflected the sky — gray, soft, endless — but the reflection was blurry, like the world didn’t want to show me anything clearly.

I rested my chin on my hands. I didn’t notice the time passing. I didn’t notice the faint rustling behind me.

Then a sudden chill ran down my spine. I turned slightly, half-expecting… nothing. The park was empty.

But I knew. I just knew that someone, something, was there.

I shook my head. “It’s nothing,” I whispered. My voice felt alien, even to me. “It’s always nothing.”

That night, sleep came like it always did — reluctantly. My bed felt too soft, too familiar, too safe for a place I no longer wanted to be.

I closed my eyes. The darkness behind my eyelids wasn’t comforting. It was too loud in its silence.

And then, I felt it.

A shift.

The room melted around me. My ceiling stretched into a silver-and-lavender sky. My bed faded into mist. The walls dissolved into nothingness.

I was standing somewhere else.

Somewhere I didn’t know. Somewhere impossible.

The ground beneath my feet wasn’t solid. It rippled gently, like water, but I didn’t sink.

And there, at the edge of my vision, I saw her.

She wasn’t quite real. She didn’t belong. But she existed anyway — a girl with hair like shadows and eyes that glimmered like they held memories I hadn’t made yet.

She tilted her head, like she had been waiting.

“You’re late,” she said softly.

Her voice felt like it had always been inside my head, waiting for me to remember it.

I opened my mouth, but the words froze. I didn’t know how to ask who she was, or why she was here, or if she even was real.

She stepped closer. Her presence made the world hold its breath.

“Louie,” she said.

Something inside me trembled. Not fear. Not happiness. Something older, quieter — like recognition.

And just like that, the dream began.

The wind in this place didn’t feel like wind. It carried a weight, soft but insistent, brushing against my skin as if trying to remind me that I existed.

I took a cautious step forward. The ground beneath me shifted slightly, like a memory trying to hold its shape. She didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t change. She just waited.

“Who… are you?” My voice was smaller than I intended.

She smiled faintly, but it wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t mean either. It was… knowing. “Someone you’ve been forgetting,” she said.

The words made my chest tighten. I didn’t understand, but something deep inside me recognized them. Forgotten? Who could I have forgotten? I shook my head, trying to clear the strange, heavy feeling pressing in.

“I… don’t understand,” I admitted.

She tilted her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder. “You will,” she said simply. Her eyes didn’t leave mine, and I felt them digging, searching, finding something buried so deep I didn’t know it existed.

I swallowed hard. My tongue felt heavy. Every instinct told me to run, to wake up, to shake off this impossible place. But my legs didn’t move. Something was holding me there. Something about her.

“Why… are you here?” I asked finally, my voice barely a whisper.

She paused. The air around us seemed to thicken. “To remind you,” she said softly. “Of things you’ve lost… and things you haven’t found yet.”

I frowned, confused. Lost? Haven’t found? I didn’t even know where to begin. Everything in my life had been gray for so long. I didn’t know what I had lost. I didn’t know what I could even hope to find.

She took a step closer. “Do you know why this place exists?” she asked.

“No,” I said quickly, desperate for something solid, something I could grab onto.

Her smile widened just slightly, a curve that was unsettling in its calm. “Because you dream it.”

I blinked. “I… I dream it?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “But dreams are fragile. And sometimes, they show us things we’re not ready to see.”

I felt a shiver run down my spine. This was more than a dream. I could feel it in my bones. My heart, my chest, my mind — all of it knew that this world wasn’t real… and yet it felt more real than my waking life ever had.

She raised her hand slowly, and the clouds beneath her fingers shimmered. “Walk with me,” she said.

I hesitated. My instincts screamed at me to say no, to stay grounded in the dull, gray life I knew. But something inside me — a part I had ignored for years — wanted to follow.

I stepped forward.

And the moment my foot touched the shimmering ground, the world shifted. Colors that didn’t exist began to seep into the sky — soft purples, faint golds, and silver that glimmered like starlight.

She smiled again, just faintly. “See? It’s always been there. You just stopped looking.”

I wanted to ask her more. Who she really was. Why she appeared only in this place. What she wanted from me. But I couldn’t. Words felt useless.

So I walked.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt something stir inside me.

Hope.

Or maybe curiosity.

Or maybe… fear.

I didn’t know which. But I knew I wanted to keep walking.

And that was enough.

The bridge of glass stretched endlessly beneath my feet, but it didn’t feel frightening. Somehow, it felt fragile, like it could shatter at any moment, and maybe that fragility mirrored me.

She walked beside me silently, her steps making no sound. Her presence was soft but undeniable, like a quiet pull at the edge of my awareness. I wanted to speak, to ask her everything that made no sense, but the words wouldn’t come.

Finally, I whispered, almost to myself, “Why… are you here?”

She didn’t answer right away. She didn’t have to. The air seemed to hum with something I couldn’t name — something alive in its quiet.

“Maybe,” she said at last, her voice low and steady, “because someone has to notice you.”

I frowned. Notice me? No one had noticed me for years, not really. People smiled, nodded, talked to me—but they never looked beyond the surface. Never understood the emptiness I carried with me.

I wanted to tell her that. I wanted to tell her that my life had been nothing but gray mornings, meaningless routines, and hollow evenings. That I didn’t know love. That I didn’t even know what it meant to matter.

But I stayed silent.

She stopped walking. I stopped too. The clouds beneath our feet rippled softly, reflecting silver light that seemed to flow from nowhere.

“You carry a weight,” she said, looking at me like she could see the ache in my chest. “Even if you don’t know it yourself.”

I looked away. “I’m… fine,” I said. My voice cracked before I could stop it.

Her eyes softened, just slightly. “Fine is just another word for lonely.”

I wanted to argue, but no words came. She was right. I was always fine on the surface, but inside… inside I was hollow. Empty. Forgotten by the world, forgotten by myself.

The silence stretched between us, but it didn’t feel awkward. It felt… necessary.

Then she spoke again. “Do you know why dreams exist?”

I shook my head slowly.

“They’re mirrors,” she said. “Mirrors for the things we can’t face when we’re awake. They bend reality, yes… but they also bend hearts. They show us what we’ve been missing. What we’ve been ignoring. What we’re afraid to see.”

I swallowed. My throat felt tight. “And… what am I supposed to see?”

Her smile was faint but unsettling, like a secret she almost wanted to tell. “That depends on whether you’re ready.”

I wanted to ask her more. Who she really was. Why she appeared only in this impossible place. What she wanted from me. But the words felt useless. Instead, I nodded, even though I didn’t understand anything.

She extended her hand. Not touching me, not close enough to be real… but I wanted to take it anyway. My fingers brushed the air where her hand hovered, and for the briefest moment, I felt warmth. Not real warmth, not physical warmth—but something stronger, deeper.

Something that whispered I mattered.

I had never felt that before.

I had never felt anything like it.

The dream shifted again. The bridge beneath us shimmered and pulsed, sending waves of silver light rippling out like water. Colors bled into the clouds — soft golds, muted purples, faint greens I didn’t recognize.

“You see,” she said, voice low, “it’s always been there. You just stopped looking.”

I wanted to ask her what she meant. Stop looking? Look for what? Love? Hope? Myself?

But instead, I just walked. Step by careful step.

And with every step, I felt something inside me loosen. The weight I had carried for years, the emptiness, the numbness… a small crack appeared.

It hurt.

It scared me.

But it felt… alive.

She didn’t speak again. She didn’t need to. I didn’t need her to. I could feel it in every heartbeat — every trembling, uncertain heartbeat — that I was beginning to wake up inside.

Somewhere deep down, I knew this was only the beginning.

The girl in the dream — the girl who shouldn’t exist, the girl who made me feel seen — had just stepped into my life.

And something inside me told me that nothing would ever be the same again.