I lay on my bed, the curtains drawn tight, only a sliver of light slipping through the fabric. The room was dark, suffocating almost, but I didn’t mind. The glow from the laptop screen in front of me was enough, its light flickering against the shadows. My eyes were glued to the screen, watching some random gameplay video with no commentary. It didn’t matter what game it was. The action on the screen was just noise—meaningless distraction, like the rest of my life.

  I’m supposed to be doing something. I know that. I should get off this damn bed, step out into the world, find a job, do something with my life. But every time I think about it, every time I convince myself that I’ll start, that I’ll actually make the change, I feel this... weight. This invisible force that keeps me anchored to this bed, to this room, to this routine.

  Get outside. Find a job. Get healthy. Reconnect with my family. It sounds so simple when you write it down, doesn’t it? When it’s just a list, a series of checkboxes waiting to be ticked. But I know—deep down—that nothing’s going to change. Not for me.

  What’s the point? I’ve been here, doing the same thing, for so long. Comfort is a trap. It lulls you into believing that nothing’s wrong, that you’re fine just the way you are. Except I’m not fine. I’m not even close. But I can’t bring myself to care. I’ve gotten too comfortable in my own misery, and the thought of change... it scares me. More than I care to admit.

  I think about my dad sometimes. I know he’s disappointed in me. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t need to. It’s in the way he looks at me, in the quiet sighs when I ask for another handout, another excuse to keep drifting through life.

  I can’t get away from it. I can’t escape the fact that this is me, this is what I’ve become. The realization cuts deeper every time, and yet, I can’t move. I can't change.

  Somewhere along the way, sleep crept in, slowly overtaking my thoughts, dragging me into darkness.

  I didn’t know when it happened, whether I fell asleep willingly or if it just happened by accident. But the next thing I knew, I was standing outside a window, peering into a room filled with warmth.

  The room was bathed in golden light, the kind that only happens when the sun is low, right before it sets. My family was there, gathered around the dinner table. My mom, my dad, my siblings—everyone was laughing, talking, enjoying their meal. I could almost taste the food on my tongue, hear the clinking of silverware against plates. The familiar sound of their voices wrapped around me like a blanket, pulling me out of the suffocating dark.

  I stood there for a moment, mesmerized. I could feel the warmth radiating from within, the easy flow of conversation, the love that seemed to fill every corner of that room. It was everything I wanted—everything I thought I could never have.

  Then, I saw him. The other me. The version of myself that I had dreamed about. He was sitting at the table, laughing with the others, completely at ease. He looked healthy, confident, dressed well. There was a shine in his eyes, a lightness in his posture, an energy that made him look like someone who had his life together. Like someone who was truly living.

  I was mesmerized. I wanted to be him. I wanted to slip into his skin and be part of that world, that life. I wanted to feel what it was like to belong there, to be the son my dad could be proud of.

  But then, something shifted.

  The other me—he turned. His eyes caught mine through the window. I froze, caught in a sudden panic.

  And then, I saw it. His expression. His face twisted into something I couldn’t quite understand at first. Disgust. His eyes narrowed, filled with something cold and harsh. His lips curled into a sneer. It was as if he was looking at me—not just as a reflection—but as a failure.

  It felt like the whole world around me stopped. My heart pounded in my chest, and in that instant, everything I had long buried came rushing to the surface.

  I felt worthless.

  He looked right through me, as if I wasn’t even a person—like I was beneath him, beneath everything that he had become. The disgust in his eyes was like a sharp, jagged thing, pulling apart all my insecurities, all my failures, every missed opportunity. It felt like he was ripping into me, exposing everything I had tried to ignore.

  And suddenly, the envy—the longing to be him—shifted. It turned into something darker. Anger.

  The rage burned through me, hot and vicious, like fire crawling up my spine. I wanted to scream, to lash out. I wanted to break through that window, to make him stop looking at me like that. To make him stop tearing apart everything I had ever feared about myself.

  I wanted to scream at him—at me—to take back that look. To stop holding up that mirror, reflecting everything that was wrong with me. The anger boiled inside me, a tempest that threatened to rip me apart.

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  I wanted to make it stop. I wanted to destroy that gaze, that judgment, that unspoken condemnation. But no matter how hard I willed it, no matter how hard I tried to move, I couldn’t. I was stuck, frozen, watching as the other me continued to stare, his gaze pulling all my buried pain to the surface.

  And that was when it happened. The anger, the helplessness, the rage—it all came together in a single moment. My heart was beating so fast it felt like it might burst from my chest.

  And just like that, I woke up.

  But waking up didn’t feel like a relief. It felt like a nightmare had spilled into my reality.

  I was back in my room, the same dim, filthy space I’d been in before. The same dark room, the same laptop screen flickering its lifeless light, and the same heavy, suffocating silence.

  Except this time, something was different. I didn’t feel like I was in control of my body. My limbs... they felt like they didn’t belong to me. I didn’t even want to move.

  But my body moved on its own, like some stranger was controlling it. I sat up, unbidden. My hands, uncooperative, found their way to the clutter around me. They started picking up clothes, stacking them neatly, wiping down the dust, organizing the chaos. I couldn’t stop them.

  I felt trapped inside my own skin, watching in horror as my body moved without my consent. It was like I was watching someone else’s hands do the work, but it was my body, my mind, caged inside, powerless to stop it. It didn’t make sense. I didn’t make sense.

  It was terrifying, but... it was also a relief.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized I didn’t have to decide. I didn’t have to choose. I didn’t have to face the weight of what I was supposed to be, what I had to become, all at once. I could just... let it happen. Let my body do the work I couldn’t. The thought was both horrifying and comforting.

  A part of me wanted to scream, to fight, to wrestle my own body back into submission. But another part of me, the part that had been too tired to fight for so long, just wanted to let go. To let my body do the things I couldn’t find the strength to do for myself.

  The motions continued, smooth and deliberate. My body moved through the clutter like a machine. Trash—heaps of it, piles of crumpled papers, empty bags, food wrappers, cans of soda I never finished—was picked up and thrown away. I wiped down surfaces, organized the mess with an efficiency that felt foreign. The chaos was gone in a way I never could’ve imagined.

  Then I opened the fridge. What I saw made my stomach churn. Expired food, old takeout containers that had turned into science experiments. Vegetables wilted and shriveled. Leftovers bloated and unappetizing. Without thinking, my hands began tossing it all into a garbage bag, sweeping it out of the fridge and onto the floor. The smell lingered, an olfactory reminder of everything I’d neglected.

  My body moved to the phone. Without even understanding why, I found myself ordering groceries. The impulse was automatic—vegetables, eggs, rice—simple, but necessary. It didn’t matter if I was fully aware of what I was doing. It was happening without my command.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  I blinked, slowly, still caught in the haze of confusion. The doorbell. I moved before my brain could even process it. I walked to the door, opened it. There stood the delivery man, holding bags of food.

  “Uh… hi. Your order,” he said, holding them out.

  “Right, yeah, okay.” My voice sounded distant, unsure, as if someone else was speaking. I took the bags from him, fingers fumbling slightly. Whether it was exhaustion or disconnection, I couldn’t tell.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, stepping back to let him leave, but I couldn’t stop staring at the bags in my hands. I felt more confused than before.

  He hesitated. “Everything... alright?”

  “Yeah. Uh... yeah,” I said, the words slipping out slow and heavy. “Fine.”

  “Okay,” he said, blinking a few times, unsure. “Well... Have a great day.”

  "You... too"

  I shut the door behind him, not even sure if he was still standing there. My brain was stuck, racing between what I’d just done and the strange detachment I felt.

  I stared at the bags for what felt like an eternity, unsure what I was supposed to do next. What was I supposed to do?

  The phone rang, but I didn’t hear it right away. When I finally noticed, it had been going for a while. My eyes were still locked on the bags, and my body moved on autopilot to grab the phone.

  “Hey, how’s everything going?” My mom’s voice was warm, familiar, offering comfort in this otherwise empty moment.

  I almost told her what was happening—what was happening to me—but the words didn’t come. I felt a strange hesitation in my throat, like I had forgotten how to speak truth. My tongue felt heavy, like I was holding back something I couldn’t name.

  “I’m... good,” I said, finally. My voice sounded distant. “How are you guys?”

  “We’re good, son. How’s your day been?” she asked, but there was something in her tone, a softness I hadn’t heard before. She was worried, and it twisted my stomach in a way I didn’t know how to respond to.

  “It’s alright... just—just been doing some things around here.”

  There was a pause. I felt the silence grow heavy. I wanted to tell her what was really going on, but the words didn’t come. Why couldn’t I be honest? Why couldn’t I tell her what I was feeling, what I was losing?

  “Anything else?” My dad’s voice cracked through the fog, warm but tentative. “You feeling alright?”

  The question felt too big. I almost wanted to confess everything—the fear, the confusion, the strange loss of self—but I stopped myself. The hesitation lingered in the air.

  “I’m fine,” I said, though I didn’t believe it. “Just... been thinking a lot about things, you know?”

  “Good,” my mom said. “That’s good to hear. What’s next?”

  I blinked. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure. What was next?

  “I... I don’t know.” The words felt like an afterthought. “Might look for work. Something real, I guess.”

  It was as if the words were coming from a version of myself that still had hope. A version that hadn’t forgotten how to dream.

  “You’re doing alright, son,” my dad’s voice softened, reassuring me more than I expected. “Just don’t overdo it. Take things one step at a time.”

  One step at a time. That was the line that stuck with me. One step.

  I blinked again, the weight of his words sinking in. I was still here. Still alive. But I wasn’t sure if I was still me.

  “Yeah,” I said, the words leaving my mouth like a sigh. “One step at a time.”

  The call ended, and I put the phone down.

  For the first time since I woke up, I realized I wasn’t sure who was in control anymore.