debil woke up with a literal weight on his shoulders.
not a metaphorical one. not "emotional baggage" disguised as a joke. an actual, crushing, slightly damp weight, like the universe had decided to give idioms a concrete dimension overnight.
he groaned, rolled over, and peeked at cendy. she was floating halfway between the ceiling and the floor, sipping some tea that shimmered like melted language.
"what's this?" he asked, trying to shrug off the burden. he could barely lift his arms.
cendy blinked slowly. "oh. that's just your 'burden of responsibility' manifesting physically. don't worry it's standard procedure around day three. happens to everyone who keeps saying it out loud."
he stared. "so… everything i say, everything i think, becomes… real?"
"if it's a metaphor," she said with a grin, "yes. congratulations. your prose is now physics."
he lifted a hand and the weight on his back groaned like an old dog. "so if i say i'm tired, my bed might actually start complaining?"
"probably," cendy replied, "and don't even think about 'burning out.' we had an incident with a candle last week. very literal."
debil exhaled. "wonderful. literal metaphors. i've officially signed up for the world's worst theme park."
he staggered to the window, feeling the weight shift with each step. the city outside no longer obeyed simple laws. neon signs curved into sentences. puddles reflected not the sky, but the questions he had failed to answer as a child. streetlights blinked in morse code, spelling advice he hadn't wanted but needed.
"so, what's the plan for today?" he asked.
cendy floated down, landing gracefully on what looked like a sentence fragment. "plan?" she repeated. "day three is mostly about understanding limits. yours, language's, and the universe's patience. every metaphor you utter will now manifest as… well, something. a phenomenon, a feeling, sometimes a minor existential crisis."
"oh," he said, "great. sounds manageable."
he tried to laugh. the weight shifted suddenly, nearly toppling him. he stumbled into a chair, which sighed under his impact.
"see?" cendy said. "your furniture has opinions now too. better negotiate politely."
he leaned back, rubbing his temples. "i guess this is what they mean by 'living the language.'"
"exactly," she said, sipping her shimmering tea again. "and today, we'll practice control. you'll discover that every utterance has gravity. humor helps. sarcasm helps more. but fear…" she paused, "fear attracts phenomena you really don't want to meet."
debil nodded slowly. "so if i say 'i'm scared,' i get monsters?"
"sometimes," cendy said, tilting her head, "sometimes you get a literal storm inside your chest. it's… dramatic. trust me, i've seen it all."
he swallowed. "i feel like my entire life has been practice for this."
"oh, it has," cendy said softly, eyes flicking to him. "every careless word, every joke, every complaint it's all contributed to the architecture of this world. you just didn't notice."
debil glanced down at his hands, glowing faintly with residual light from yesterday. "so i'm not just navigating a hallucination," he muttered, "i'm basically… responsible for the physics of my own idioms?"
"exactly," she said. "you're both poet and physicist. frightening, isn't it?"
"terrifying," he admitted. "and hilarious. somehow simultaneously."
she smiled. "good. humor is a stabilizer. without it, gravity becomes vindictive. trust me i've lived through metaphors gone rogue."
he leaned back, exhaling slowly. "so, what should i do first?"
"first," cendy said, "try something small. a minor metaphor. nothing dangerous. perhaps… 'i wish this coffee were warmer.'"
he reached for a cup on the table. the liquid swirled, then gently steamed in response to his thought. the aroma shifted subtly to cinnamon and old memories.
"wow," he said, amazed, "it obeys me. or… at least my attention."
"yes," cendy said. "but remember attention is currency here. the more you focus, the more literal your metaphors become. and beware the ones that hide in shadows. they're cunning."
he sipped carefully. the warmth spread not just through his body, but through the landscape around him. the floor beneath his chair rippled slightly, approvingly. the walls seemed to lean in, listening.
he looked at cendy. "so, every phrase, every joke, every thought could—"
"—become real," she finished. "welcome to day three. choose wisely, poet."
he chuckled, the sound bouncing off the walls like small, bright balloons. "well, at least it's interactive."
"oh," she said, floating past him, "it's interactive alright. and the universe is… brutally honest about feedback."
he leaned back again, feeling the metaphorical weight lighten slightly as he laughed at the absurdity of it all. "okay then," he said, "let's see how dangerous my words can get today."
outside, the wind carried the faint echo of idioms, mutating them into shapes: a cat made of apology notes, a cloud that whispered "i told you so", and a streetlamp that blinked rhythmically, as if counting the seconds until debil learned to speak responsibly.
he sighed, smiling faintly. "well, at least it's never boring."
and somewhere, cendy chuckled, knowing full well that day three would leave scars and laughter in equal measure the kind that only a world built entirely of metaphors could give.
welcome to day three.