Bhagya sat on the edge of his bed, knees tucked into his chest, eyes darting to the wall clock every few seconds. 3:12 AM. Again.
He didn't even remember when he stopped fearing the dream and started fearing the moment before sleep — that slow descent into the unknown. That white field. That blood. That pain that seemed to live inside his bones even after he woke.
He rubbed his face, then staggered into the kitchen, blinking against the harsh tube light. The kettle whined lowly on the stove, steam trailing like ghosts. He poured the boiling water over instant coffee and drank it without sugar. The bitterness grounded him, burned him, reminded him he was awake.
He'd lost count of how many cups it had been.
Stay awake. Just stay awake.
He paced the room, brows furrowed. He played some horror podcast in the background, something about haunted asylums and vengeful spirits — the kind of thing he used to laugh at. Not anymore.
When the podcast ended, he picked up his old comic book — the one with the cursed swordsman. He flipped through it half-heartedly.
But the panels blurred. His head tilted. Eyes burned.
No. Not yet. Not again.
He slammed the book shut and stumbled toward the bathroom.
The mirror was fogged with his breath. He looked into it.
And it looked back.
Himself ... but not quite.
This time, the reflection didn't copy him. It stayed still as Bhagya leaned forward. And then, in a whisper that sent a chill down his spine, it spoke.
"You look tired."
Bhagya gasped. He hadn't opened his mouth — but the voice sounded exactly like his own. Perfectly mimicked.
He stepped back, heart thudding, his voice shaky:
"W-who are you? Why… why do I keep seeing… that place?"
The reflection tilted its head. The same face. The same eyes. But the gaze… older. Colder. Broken.
"You already know," it said, mouth unmoving.
Bhagya's throat tightened. His legs gave slightly. He leaned on the sink.
"Why me? What… what is this? Who are you...?"
No answer.
The reflection blinked once, and suddenly, it was mirroring him again — just a reflection.
He stood there for minutes. Maybe hours. He didn't know. Only when the sky outside began to faintly glow with the coming sun did he move.
Later that morning, his phone buzzed.
Anaya:
"U good? You didn't reply last night 😐"
He stared at her message. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Finally:
"Yeah. Just tired. Couldn't sleep."
Seconds later, the typing dots appeared.
Anaya:
"Aww. You overthink too much 😤 Come hang out. You need sun and socialisation."
He smiled faintly. Then stopped himself. What was the point of dragging people into this mess?
Before he could respond, another ping.
Arvin:
"Brooooo... you alive? Anaya thinks you died lol"
Bhagya sighed. Maybe it was time to get out of the house. Or at least away from mirrors.
He ended up at Arvin's place by late afternoon.
Arvin greeted him with a lazy fist bump and a smirk.
"Anaya says you ghosted her again. Keep doing that and I won't even need to confess — she'll hate you before I say a word."
Bhagya managed a laugh, hollow but passable. "Maybe I'm doing you a favour."
Arvin raised an eyebrow but didn't push. He flopped onto the couch, controller in hand. "Crash here if you want. Couch's all yours."
That night, they ate leftover noodles and watched old action movies. Arvin passed out snoring, one arm dangling off the couch.
Bhagya, curled under a thin blanket, stared at the ceiling and didn't even noticed that he fell asleep and then....
He woke choking.
The white field was back.
He was crawling. Alone. Screams in the wind — or maybe just the wind. The field stretched endlessly, its brightness sharp and suffocating. His hands were raw. Blood mixed with dust. His ribs ached. Something had pierced him — a sword? A spike? He didn't know. All he could feel was the pain. And behind it, something darker… something watching.
He jolted awake, soaked in sweat, the blanket tangled around his legs.
The clock read 4:09 AM.
Arvin was still asleep.
Bhagya stood, dizzy. He walked past the kitchen, past the stairs, and climbed to the building's terrace.
The night was cool. Quiet.
He walked slowly to the edge, hands in his hoodie pockets, his breath visible in the air.
The city stretched out below him — still alive, still moving, even though he felt so... paused.
He looked down, not to jump, not to fall — just to feel something.
His voice cracked as he spoke to no one.
"Why am I the one who remembers pain I never lived?"
There was no answer.
Only wind.
Only silence.
And then — a buzz.
His phone lit up.
Anaya:
"Can't sleep. You okay?"
He stared at the screen, the glow lighting up his face.
Then, slowly, he stepped back from the edge.
Not because he had answers.
But because someone had asked the right question.