The first thing I notice every morning is the ceiling.
Not because it's interesting. It isn't. It's plain, off-white, slightly cracked near the corner where moisture once tried to claim ownership. But it's always there when I open my eyes, waiting for me before anything else in the world has a chance to exist.
There is comfort in that predictability.
I wake before the alarm most days. Not out of discipline or ambition. My body simply refuses to stay asleep once my mind begins its early rituals. Thoughts arrive before consciousness fully settles in, like guests who know the door code and don't bother knocking.
Did you sleep enough?You look tired.You always look tired.What if today goes wrong?What if you say something stupid?What if someone notices something is off about you?
I stare at the ceiling and let the questions pass through me. Fighting them makes them louder. Ignoring them makes them persistent. So I acknowledge them the way one acknowledges passing traffic—present but not worth stepping into.
The room is still. Too still. The kind of stillness that feels staged, as if everything is holding its breath. The curtains are drawn but thin enough to let a faint gray light seep through. Morning hasn't fully arrived yet; it lingers somewhere behind the horizon, hesitant.
I sit up slowly, careful not to disrupt the fragile quiet.
The floor is cold. It always is. My feet register the temperature like a reminder that the world exists beyond thought. Physical sensation grounds me, if only for a moment. I stand there longer than necessary, staring at nothing in particular, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness.
There is a peculiar sensation that accompanies waking—a brief window where reality feels negotiable. For a few seconds, the world hasn't fully solidified. Shapes are softer. Sounds are distant. My mind hovers between dream and waking, unsure which version of existence it prefers.
Then it settles.
The mirror above the sink catches me off guard as it always does. Not because I forget it's there, but because my reflection never feels entirely expected. It's like meeting someone who resembles me but isn't quite me. Someone whose expressions I recognize yet don't fully trust.
I study my face with quiet scrutiny.
Neutral expression. Slight shadows beneath the eyes. Lips pressed together in a way that suggests restraint rather than calm. There is nothing outwardly alarming. Nothing that would make a stranger look twice. If anything, I appear ordinary—painfully so.
I practice a small smile.It looks convincing enough.I let it fade.
Water runs. Toothbrush. Routine. Movements repeated so often they no longer require conscious direction. There is safety in repetition. When actions become automatic, thoughts have less room to wander into dangerous territories.
Still, they find ways.
While brushing my teeth, I replay yesterday's conversations. Every word. Every pause. Every glance that may or may not have meant something. The mind has a talent for expanding minor interactions into complex narratives. A simple "see you later" can become a puzzle with infinite interpretations.
Did they actually want to see you later?Or were they just being polite?You should've responded differently.Why did you say it like that?They probably noticed something was off.
The toothbrush moves mechanically. Foam gathers. I spit, rinse, repeat. The thoughts continue, indifferent to the ritual meant to suppress them.
By the time I leave the bathroom, the day has already begun inside my head.
The outside world follows reluctantly.
The street below my apartment is narrow and quiet, lined with buildings that seem older than they should be. Their walls hold a tired sort of dignity, paint faded but stubborn. A single streetlamp flickers despite the approaching daylight, unsure whether its presence is still required.
I watch from the window for a moment longer than necessary. People pass occasionally—heads down, steps purposeful. Each of them carries an internal world I will never fully understand. Each of them likely believes they are the only ones thinking as intensely as they do.
There is something strangely comforting in that assumption.
I leave the apartment with my usual precision. Keys checked twice. Door locked. Handle tested once more, just to be certain. Certainty is rare and therefore valuable. If I can guarantee at least one small thing—like a locked door—it feels like a minor victory against the chaos of everything else.
The hallway smells faintly of detergent and something older beneath it. Footsteps echo softly as I descend the stairs. Every sound feels amplified in enclosed spaces. Even breathing seems louder here, as if the building itself is listening.
Halfway down, I pause.
For a brief moment, I think I hear something behind me. Not footsteps exactly. More like a shift in air. A subtle displacement. The kind of sound that exists just at the edge of perception.
I turn.
Nothing.
The hallway stretches upward in quiet indifference. Doors closed. Lights dim. No movement. No presence. Just the lingering sensation of having been briefly observed by something without form.
I exhale slowly and continue down the stairs.
Outside, morning has finally committed to existing. The sky is a muted gray, neither welcoming nor hostile. Just present. The air carries a faint chill that seeps through fabric and settles lightly against skin. Cars pass intermittently, their engines humming like distant thoughts.
I walk without urgency.
There is no specific destination that requires haste. Movement itself is the objective. As long as I'm moving, the mind remains partially occupied with navigation—sidewalk cracks, passing pedestrians, the rhythm of steps. Stillness invites introspection. Too much introspection invites collapse.
So I walk.
Shops begin to open. Metal shutters rise with mechanical reluctance. A café on the corner releases the first hints of coffee into the air, warm and grounding. For a moment, I consider going inside. Ordering something. Sitting among strangers and pretending to belong to the same uncomplicated world they do.
But the thought of interaction introduces its own complications. Words must be chosen carefully. Tone must be calibrated. Eye contact maintained just long enough to appear normal but not so long as to seem intrusive.
I keep walking.
As I pass the café window, my reflection briefly merges with the interior scene—tables, chairs, early customers, soft lighting. For a split second, it looks as though I exist inside that space. As though I am part of something warm and ordinary.
Then the angle shifts. The reflection separates. I am outside again.
There is a moment—small, almost imperceptible—when a voice seems to brush against my awareness. Not clear enough to be understood. Not distinct enough to confirm its existence. Just a faint suggestion of sound layered beneath the city's morning noise.
I stop.
Listen.
Cars. Wind. A distant conversation. Nothing else.
The sensation fades quickly, leaving behind only the awareness that I had noticed something at all.
I resume walking, slower now. More attentive. The world continues as if nothing unusual has occurred. Perhaps nothing has. The mind has a way of generating echoes where none exist. Filling silence with imagined signals. Creating meaning from randomness.
I tell myself this is normal.
Everyone overthinks sometimes.Everyone mishears things.Everyone feels watched occasionally.
These are ordinary experiences. Harmless. Manageable. Temporary.
I repeat these assurances internally until they settle into something resembling belief.
By the time I reach the end of the street, the city has fully awakened. Traffic increases. Voices multiply. The day asserts itself with quiet authority. There are tasks to complete, conversations to navigate, hours to occupy. A structure within which I can temporarily hide from the more chaotic elements of my own mind.
I take a breath and step forward into it.
At this point in the story, there is nothing visibly wrong. Nothing that would alarm a passerby or concern a casual observer. From the outside, everything appears functional. Controlled. Ordinary.
Even I almost believe it.
Almost.