I tried to speak—to call for help—but my mouth felt too heavy to obey.
No sound came out.
My legs gave way beneath me.
I collapsed.
Hard.
The floor caught me before anything else could.
I didn't move after that.
Couldn't.
I lay there in a pool of my own blood, staring.
Eyes half-open. Unfocused.
Breathing felt optional—like something my body was doing out of habit rather than need.
The room was quiet again.
But not the same quiet.
This one lingered.
Pressed in.
Heavy enough to feel alive.
For a split second—
something broke it.
My vision stuttered.
Like reality itself had skipped a beat.
There was something on the ceiling.
Watching me through the haze.
I blinked.
Gone.
Only silence remained.
Waiting.
I wasn't sure when my fingers had loosened against the floor.
Or when I had started holding on in the first place.
"…you're right."
The voice came again.
Closer than before.
I froze.
Not because I understood it—
but because something in me refused to respond.
Like answering would confirm something I wasn't ready to accept.
I swallowed.
My throat felt dry.
"…right about what?"
Silence.
Then—
A shift.
Not in the room.
Beneath it.
Like the ground had missed a step.
Or like I had.
"You shouldn't be here."
The words didn't fully belong to the voice.
They arrived layered.
Fractured.
As if spoken from somewhere deeper than sound should come from.
My breathing slowed.
My chest tightened.
Not pain.
Just… wrong.
I tried to move.
My body responded late.
Uneven.
My weight shifted incorrectly against the floor, as if gravity had forgotten the rules for a moment—
and was trying to remember them.
"…okay," I muttered. "I'm just—"
I blinked.
The room didn't change.
Not visibly.
But something in it did.
The edges softened.
Distance lost meaning.
Sound dulled, as if the world had stepped back from me—
or I from it.
My pulse grew louder in my ears.
Slow.
Heavy.
Measured.
Too loud.
I pressed a hand to my chest.
My heartbeat answered—
wrong.
Irregular.
Unsteady.
Something was off.
My body knew it before I did.
And it didn't like it.
I pushed slightly, trying to adjust my position.
My legs trembled.
Not from pain.
From instability.
Like control itself was slipping.
The room tilted.
Just a fraction.
Enough.
My stomach turned.
"…no."
I grabbed the desk.
Too hard.
The wood creaked under my grip.
My breathing quickened.
Short.
Shallow.
Unstable.
Something whispered again.
Not a voice.
A pressure.
A thought that didn't belong to me.
"You're slipping."
My fingers tightened.
"What—"
My vision flickered.
Once.
But enough.
My breath caught.
The light in the room felt thinner.
Less certain.
The shadows stretched longer than they should have.
Cold spread across my skin.
A distant ringing began in my ears.
Faint at first.
Then growing.
Expanding.
"I said—"
My voice cracked.
"I said what's going on—"
My knees gave out.
Not fully.
Not yet.
But enough.
Enough that I had to hold onto the desk just to stay upright.
Warmth slid from my nose.
I wiped it without thinking.
Looked at my fingers.
Red.
Thick.
Real.
"…no."
My breath hitched.
The ringing swelled.
Everything began to blur—
light, sound, balance collapsing into one unstable whole.
The desk beneath my hands felt farther away now.
Less solid.
Less real.
I tried to straighten.
"…stop."
My voice came out weaker.
Distant.
Like I was hearing it from somewhere else.
The room tilted again.
This time—
it didn't fully correct.
My grip tightened.
Too tight.
My fingers hurt.
Good.
Pain meant I was still here.
Right?
The ringing became a roar.
Everything collapsed inward.
Light.
Sound.
Balance.
My body stopped responding the way it should.
And then—
my hand slipped.
Just slightly.
My body followed.
I didn't fight it.
Couldn't.
I dropped.
Not violently.
Not dramatically.
Just—
down.
The floor met me.
Or I met it.
My shoulder hit first.
Then my head.
The impact rang through my skull like a bell struck too close.
For a moment—
everything stopped.
No sound.
No movement.
Only suspended silence.
Like the world had paused—
just to check if I was still part of it.
I tried to inhale.
Nothing came.
My chest tightened.
My vision flickered.
Black.
Then—
light.
Too sharp.
Too bright.
The world returned in fragments.
Unstable.
Incomplete.
And then—
everything felt wrong.
My thoughts slowed.
Broken.
Disconnected.
Unfamiliar.
I lay there.
Not moving.
Not because I chose to.
But because my body no longer understood how.
And somewhere in that fractured stillness—
a thought surfaced.
Clear.
Uninvited.
Almost amused.
"Shit… I'm going to die, aren't I?"
They say the last thing you see before you die is your life flashing before your eyes.
That's a lie.