Out of the Blue

_Prologue_ You used to think that humans are just the sum of their parts. You thought this because there was no part of you that could not be traced back to some concrete detail of your past. The sweet smell of poppies in your mother’s hospital room. The jagged exposed brick of your first apartment. Something whispered to you in the back of your second grade classroom by someone whose face you don’t remember. There’s nothing about humans to suggest that there’s anything original about the way we invent ourselves, you used to think. We are born. We imbibe. We become. It was always a passive process. [[Forward|Awakening]]

The last thing you remember is a hot flash of blue. Your eyes flicker open to an unfamiliar ceiling, white and glowing bright as a TV screen. Blinking several times, you sit up in a panic. This isn’t your apartment. Terracotta walls, white shag carpet, an oversized birchwood wardrobe and matching desk, too-perfectly staged, all glowing with an oddly saturated intensity. You scramble out of a queen bed covered in too many pillows. Daylight threatens to burst through an olive curtain draped over a tall, arched window. The thought of drawing the curtain is unbearable. Whenever she was angry (which was almost daily), Lydia would draw the curtains at sunrise to ensure maximum pain for your hangovers (which were daily), then shrug and say she wrote better in the mornings. But this isn’t like those times — you haven’t had a drink in months. “Hello?” Your own voice sounds muffled, though you can feel sound pushing through your windpipe, vibrating against your throat, echoing in your head. The sensation is like forgetting to take your earphones out after the music has stopped playing. Feeling panic build in your chest, you take deep breaths. The last thing you remember is a hot flash of blue. You were lying in front of your laptop in your dimly lit Brooklyn apartment, too tired to lift a finger to skip the ads. You don’t remember if you fell asleep. As your eyes slowly adjust to your technicolor surroundings, you realize the room is bereft of personal belongings — books, pictures, clothes. The birchwood desk in the corner is bare but for an old-fashioned landline. The wardrobe, when you open the doors, is empty. Adjacent to the queen bed is a bathroom, where the tiles and floors shine as bright bluish-white as the ceiling, with an ordinary porcelain tub, a toilet, and a sink, above which the wall is completely bare. No mirror. Wherever you are, it seems perfectly designed to induce a horrific migraine, hangover or no. You realize two things at once: one, you’re not imaginative enough to dream up anything this elaborate; and two, you have to get out. The door opens to a high-ceilinged hallway lined with numbered doors that look like yours. The numbered sign on your own door reads 132. There’s no escaping the migraine-inducing glow, you realize, unless you can find a way out of here. You make your way across the thick velvet carpet and see that most of the doors are slightly ajar, some flung wide open, and you catch glimpses of other rooms that look nothing like yours: vivid fuschia and dark oak, shimmering Persian rugs and damask drapes. You cautiously enter a room decorated in a disturbing style Lydia would have described as ‘70s kitsch. The bathroom here looks exactly the same as yours, bare, white, mirrorless. A hotel or apartment complex is the first thing that crosses your mind, though the emptiness throughout the building makes you wary. You step inside it and hear no echo. With no mirror, it’s like you don’t exist, except for the ragged rhythm of your own breaths and your mile-a-minute thoughts. When you lean against the porcelain sink, you expect it to be cold; instead, it barely registers on your skin, and you have to convince yourself that it’s there at all. Stumbling back out, you don’t realize you’re running until you reach the end of the hallway and you have to lean against the wall, panting. You've arrived at an elevator room that looks much different from the hallway and the numbered rooms, devoid of any color but gray, yet luminous as everything else. You enter the elevator and discover there are three floors, with nowhere to go but down. [[Second floor]] [[Ground floor]]

The elevator dings and the metal doors slide open. According to the sign on the wall, this hotel — for it’s clear now that’s what this building is — has an indoor pool, a gym, and an art gallery. You went to a fancy hotel once, a really fancy one, shortly before your mother’s diagnosis. It had fancy things like a hot tub and a massage parlor and an office space for busy fathers who never really went on vacation, right next to the cocktail lounge. The hotel you're in looks nothing like that one, but it has an air of grandeur about it that seems familiar. There has to be at least one other person here, you think, but a nagging worry lodges itself in the back of your mind: what if you’re not supposed to be here? What if someone discovers you, and something bad happens? You decide that, between that moment and now, you can at least find out enough about this place to know where to hide. [[Art gallery]] [[Library]]

foundGallery: false -- The elevator dings and the metal doors slide open. You enter a large chamber made entirely of concrete, or it could be gray stone, with high ceilings and bare walls. The only furniture in sight is an arrangement of Victorian chaise lounges in the middle and a tall desk made of concrete or stone, where a woman in a navy tweed dress is sitting with her back to you. The desk faces a large glass door on the opposite end of the room. If this is, in fact, a hotel, then this must be the front desk and the woman must be someone who can help you. You begin walking towards the desk and are somewhat startled by the absence of your own footsteps. There are no rugs or carpets, but the echo you expect isn’t there. No matter — you have questions you need answered. “Hello,” you say. The woman is reading a book, her feet propped up on the desk. She doesn’t look up or respond. “Hi,” you try again, a little louder. Maybe her hearing is as bad as yours. She finally glances up at you with sullen eyes. “Yes,” she says. It’s unclear from her tone if she’s responding to you. You open your mouth to ask where you are and why you’re here, but stop yourself — if you’re not supposed to be here, who knows what might happen when you’re caught? Might be safer to play along. Instead, you tell her your room number and your name. The woman scoffs. “*That’s* the name you chose?” “Excuse me?” “When your two weeks is up, try picking something less dreadful.” You nod as if to agree — what on earth could she mean? — and try hard to think of an innocuous question, anything that could get you a clue but not give yourself away. “Could you please tell me… where I can find a mirror?” She looks at you for a long time and you start to panic. Was that a bad question? Then she says, “We don’t have those here.” “Um… you mean you don’t have them anywhere in the building? Or…” “We don’t have those here.” A place without mirrors, then. You could get used to that, you suppose, for a little while. Having to see your own reflection isn’t as much a necessity as you’d been led to believe. You wonder, though, while you’re stuck in this place with no idea how you got there or how to get back, what else you’ll have to live without — or with. The colors seem brighter in this world, more saturated; your eyes could adjust. The muffled pressure over your ears is already barely noticeable, though a little irritating. All you need, really, is information. “Do you have someone I can speak to? Someone in charge?” The woman’s sullen eyes stare back at you. “We’re all in charge here.” Her cryptic answers are getting annoying. “Who’s ‘we’?” “All of us.” “At the… hotel?” She sighs, clicks her tongue, and turns back to her book. Alright then. You’ve had enough. [[Leave|Lobby]]

foundGallery: true -- You follow the carpeted hallway until you reach a door that's propped open and a sign that reads "Art Gallery". Inside, the gallery is a dome-shaped room bathed completely in daylight, shining through tall glass windows. Devoid of furniture, the only items are the oil paintings in gilded frames that line the wall. You approach the paintings for a closer look and find that they all depict different versions of the same scene: a naked body submerged in a glittering pool of water, twisting, floating, suspended, free, reflecting tints of sapphire or sea green or even streaks of violet and gold. The water seems to shift its hue from different angles, so vivid you can almost taste it. You follow the figure’s movement from one painting to the next, fascinated. The dull sound of scraping wood pulls you out of submersion. You whip around to see a brisk-moving person in an oversized white blazer and slacks, arranging wooden stools in rows across the middle of the room. You freeze, unsure if you should hide or approach; before you can make a decision, they make eye contact. “Hello there! Are you—” the rest is inaudible to you. “Sorry, what was that?” You instinctively move toward the person, who’s wearing a smile so inviting you can’t help but feel safe. More features come into focus as you step closer: bright, playful eyes and a rugged confidence in their posture; in contrast, an expressive mouth that carries a certain feminine grace, soft-looking hands that inspire longing. There's a magnetism in their every movement as they turn to face you. You feel a flush rise in your cheeks — this is the most breathtaking person you’ve ever seen. “Are you enjoying the artwork?” the breathtaking person says, louder this time. Their voice has a smooth but slightly raspy quality to it, like thick velvet or suede. “Oh... yes!” You realize you’re raising your voice to speak above the mysterious pressure still present in your ears. Embarrassed, you clear your throat. “They're lovely.” “Thanks.” Their face splits into another wide smile, and they resume their task of carrying wooden stools into the middle of the gallery. “You painted them?” “Uh-huh.” With a jolt, you remember that you’re not supposed to be here. You long to ask questions, but what if this person, as beautiful as they are, can’t help you? “I’m staying at the hotel,” you say. “I… just arrived.” You tell them your name and room number, hoping that honesty is the right risk to take. “Ah, welcome!” They take a seat on one of the stools and gesture for you to do the same, the billowing fabric of their blazer emitting a bright sheen with each movement. “I’m the manager here, my name’s Galaxy.” “Of course it is,” you chuckle, without thinking; then, worried that you may have come off as offensive, “I mean, because you seem so… otherworldly. I-It’s a beautiful name.” Even to your muffled ears you sound lame. To your relief, Galaxy lets out a laugh as smooth and luxurious as their voice. “Well, that’s a compliment. I chose it myself.” They study you for a moment. “Though really, you’re the one who’s not from around here, are you?” Your heart drops into your stomach. You have a sudden vision of Galaxy’s velvety voice calling out for security, and the feeling of rough hands dragging you to some interrogation room like at an airport. Heart beating fast, you ask, “Are you setting up for something?” “Actually, yes,” they say, their tone betraying no hint of suspicion. “I’m setting up for a self-portrait workshop later this afternoon. Will you come? No drawing experience required, anyone’s welcome.” The warmth in their eyes could make you believe anything. You’d probably attend a bull fighting lesson if they invited you. “Sure,” you reply. Then something occurs to you. “Self-portrait? So do you provide mirrors, or do we bring our own? Because I can't find....” Galaxy throws their head back and laughs that velvety laugh again. They rise from their stool. “We don’t have those here,” they say. You feel like you’re missing something. “You mean... anywhere in the building? Or...?” But they’re already walking away as if they didn’t hear you. At the gallery entrance, they turn around and lean one hand against the door frame. “You can choose your name too, you know.” Then, with a cavalier wink and a swift step, they’re gone, leaving you on your wooden stool with a fluttering sensation in your throat. You might have a weakness for attractive people (who doesn't?), but something tells you Galaxy isn't hostile. Something tells you they won't be able to help you, either. You decide to keep looking for a way out. You leave the gallery and look down the hall, in the opposite direction of the elevators. A neon Exit sign shines above a door just a few feet away; you push the door open and begin to descend down the stairwell. When you reach the second door at the bottom, you push it open and step outside. [[Forward|Outside]]

A whole spectrum of colors flashes before your eyes, temporarily blinding you. You squeeze your eyes shut to steady yourself, then slowly blink them open to find yourself on a sidewalk facing a busy street. The sky is a stunning forget-me-not blue, so vibrant it seems to hum. A red brick bike shop across the street emits a soft glow despite its plain hue, as does a metal trash bin on the corner of the street, and the clothes of the passersby shoving past you because yes, you are standing right in the middle of the sidewalk. You hurriedly step to the side while your eyes adjust. You turn around to look at the hotel and see a shabby chic three-story building with the facade of a nineteenth century French manor. It has a certain charm to it from the outside, now that you're a little less disoriented. A wooden sign above the door displays white lettering, painted by hand in an almost indecipherable cursive. You squint and read: *Hologramme Hotel*. Huh. A clue, but not a very helpful one. Nothing seemed holographic about that place; if anything, all the walls, furniture, objects inside it felt more solid, more present. Though of course the name can’t be literal — did you really expect to walk *through* anything? There’s a diner next door to the hotel, and the large front windows catch your eye. You run over and see people inside, dining, chatting, laughing, but no reflection, not even of the bustling street behind you. You step closer, then step back. “They don’t have those here,” you whisper to yourself, amused and a little disappointed. But it could be a trick of the light; you step to the side, squint, move up closer to the glass, wave your hand back and forth to try to catch a glimpse of your own movement, then you finally see it: a family of four staring back at you, children with mouths open and spoons stopped midair. Time to go. The pressure in your ears has waned slightly to let in the sounds of cars passing by, the cries of small children, barking dogs greeting each other across the street, as you make your way past shop fronts and vendors. You’re not going in any particular direction, but a singular desire to find answers is banging against the walls of your brain. If not for the blinding saturation of the colors, this place would look exactly the same as the normal world. It’s uncanny, to be honest, and you keep expecting something extraordinary to happen, like a whole building suddenly uprooting and floating away, or a disembodied voice from above booming, “WELCOME, NEWCOMER.” Worst of all, you imagine everyone around you abruptly freezing in place, then turning all at once to face you so that you’re completely exposed, surrounded by hostile eyes with no answers in them at all. This doesn’t happen. Instead, a beaming ice cream vendor waves at you with so much enthusiasm you wonder, absurdly, if he knows you. “Hello there!” he calls out. Nothing about him looks familiar. “You look like you need a sweet treat!” Before you can protest that you don’t have any money, he presses a heaping scoop of pink ice cream on a cone into your hand. “On the house,” he says with a wink. What the fuck? You search his face for a trace of malice and find none. Murmuring your thanks, you continue cautiously down the street, waiting for him to change his mind and run after you to angrily demand payment and then discover that you don’t belong here. This doesn’t happen. Out of curiosity, you run your tongue along the outer rim of the ice cream cone and swallow the gleaming pink mush. The taste is… disappointing. It’s lukewarm somehow, and the sweetness is there, but dulled, as if your tongue is missing half its taste buds. [[Forward|The Forum]]

When you approach what looks to be a large park, with an expansive stretch of lush green grass and groups of lounging picnickers scattered around, the ice cream has melted into a sticky mess in your hand and all the way down your bare forearm. You’re shocked to discover that you hadn’t felt it at all. Confused, and mostly disgusted, you throw the crumbling, wet mess into a nearby trash can and cast your eyes around for something to clean off your arm. You’re crouched like a forager with your arm hovering over the grass when someone nearby says, “Here, use this.” A girl sitting on a blue gingham picnic blanket holds out a small cloth, which you take. Seated in a circle around the blanket, a group of people you presume to be her friends watching you with curious eyes — a girl with arms fully covered in tattoos, a boy wearing a cutoff tank top and cascading white chiffon skirt, another boy in ripped jeans and a band T-shirt. To your surprise, the girl who gave you the towel pats the empty space next to her. You take a seat. The grass under your fingers feels dry and unreal. “We were just discussing the Freudian death drive,” she says cheerfully. She has wild hair with a string of white daisies woven through it, and a dreamy expression in her eyes. “My name’s Anne. With an ‘e’.” You can’t help but smile at the reference. The boy in chiffon chuckles, “She was Clarissa Dalloway last week, I think I liked that one better.” You instantly sense a feeling of ease and familiarity in this group; it’s clear they’ve known each other for a long time. As they continue their conversation, you do your best to follow along, but you’re more captivated by the enthusiasm in their gestures and raised voices, underscored by an infectious kindness toward one another. You don't remember the last time you were among friends. You survey the park and see that everyone seems to be similarly situated in circles in the grass, leaning in and gesturing emphatically, engrossed in conversation. You wonder what passions they share, how they all found each other. “So, I still don’t understand if Zizek is *disagreeing* with Freud?” The boy in ripped jeans, whose name you gathered is Cecilio, pulls up blades of grass as he speaks, collecting them in his lap. Anne tosses her hair, shedding a few daisies. “He says it’s about being caught in like, an endless, repetitive cycle of guilt and pain, which is a bit like Freud, you know, the self-destructive pattern — oh, Zodiac, pass the chips please?” The girl with the tattoos leans across and hands her an open snack bag. To Anne’s right, the boy in chiffon is plucking more daisies and skillfully weaving them into a chain. “His metaphors are kind of all over the place,” he says, fastening the new chain into Anne’s hair while she tilts her head obligingly. “His sense of the death drive is more like Lacan’s in that it’s purely, like, symbolic...” “What’s interesting *to me* is when he says the drive for pleasure originates from the same basic instinct...” “What do you think?” Only half listening to the conversation, you’re startled when the girl named Zodiac addresses you. All eyes are on you now. “Uh…” You know next to nothing about Freud. You decide to offer the first honest thought that comes into your head. “Well… my wife — ex-wife, Lydia — she would have liked you guys,” you say. “She’s a novelist.” Lydia liked to talk about big ideas, obscure theories about sex and rage and luck. Her best stories started that way. “Why did she leave, if you don’t mind?” Zodiac’s voice rings sympathetic. What might have felt like an invasive question is rendered as mere curiosity. You don’t have to wonder how she knew you were the one who was dumped: it must be written all over your face. “Er, well… my mother died,” you explain. “Alzheimer’s. I didn’t, uh, handle it well. I wasn’t there for my wife. She left about six months ago.” You wave your hand in what you hope is a dismissive gesture. The whole truth is that, after your mother died, the grief untied the soul from your body and left a shell that Lydia simply couldn’t love anymore. She waited a generous three years. And for three years you drank heavily and stared at screens to flush your thoughts away, scrolling endlessly with a kind of undead mania, or else watching commercials flash on the TV until you fell asleep; in your sober moments, you pored obsessively over your mother’s journals, reliving the beginning of the end and searching for clues of your own demise. You succeeded in convincing yourself that your own mind’s collapse is a foregone conclusion, despite the doctor’s reassurances. Maybe it’s best that Lydia won’t be around to witness it. You’re anxious to change the subject. “How long have you all known each other?” The mood around the circle instantly lifts. Zodiac, brushing chip crumbs off her lap, laughs. “We just met today!” “Except for me and Ros,” Anne says, nodding to the boy in chiffon. “We met last week, here at the Forum.” They share a brief, playful look between them. You’re stunned. Even if they bonded through shared interests, the familiarity they share with each other should only be possible among lifelong friends. It must be a cultural tendency in this world, which would explain how they’ve extended it to you as well; for the first time since you woke up in the hotel room, you don’t feel like an outsider. “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” Anne whispers to you kindly as the others pick up the conversation again. “But there are a few support groups in the Forum that could offer a safe space, if you need it.” You look around at the conversation circles, spread out as far as the eye can see. “I’d be sorry to leave you all so soon,” you say. Anne shakes her head. “It’s been a few hours and we’ve thoroughly enjoyed your company. Please don’t worry — we’ll be right here.” Hours? You turn your gaze to the sky above, shining as brilliantly blue as if it were midday. You realize that without sun or shadow, there’s no way to sense the passage of time. You listen for a little while longer, then slowly rise and announce your departure. They all pause to wave goodbye before resuming the conversation. You're not sure of where to go next, but you decide to simply let your feet guide you. [[Stay|Forum death]] [if foundGallery] [[Leave|recallWorkshop]] [else] [[Leave|meetGalaxy]]

As you wander through the park — the Forum, Anne called it — you toy with the idea of going back to the hotel. If it’s true that you’ve been here for hours, then it’s past time to find your way back, and though you have no clue as to how you’ll manage it, the room where you woke up seems like a good place to start. Though on the other hand, you could find another group and learn more about the people here, maybe even get some questions answered. There’s an addictive quality to this place; you think back to the kind faces of Anne, Ros, Cecilio, Zodiac, the way they made you feel heard and accepted even if you didn’t contribute to their conversation. There could be an infinite number of groups just like theirs, discussing Heidegger or pop music or eighteenth century art. You pass what must be one of the support groups Anne mentioned, a circle of somber people attentively listening to one person and nodding with sympathy; what you didn’t want to tell her was that you’ve attended enough support group sessions to last you a lifetime. Each person suffers through grief in their own tortured way, but the support groups always look the same from the outside. Letting curiosity be your guide, you wander around and listen in on snippets of conversation. A few feet away, a particularly heated exchange is happening among a group rather larger than Anne’s. The other groups situated nearby carry on, each lost in its own little world, apparently unaware of the raised voices. “I read him the same way as you; I think he’s primarily trying to--” “What I just want to know is, is there a literary consensus on the question?” A man in a baseball cap is sitting awkwardly straight, arms crossed. It’s clear from his facial expression that he began this conversation and has not found a satisfying response. “Maybe I don’t understand your question. If a text generates a feeling of strangeness, is it really meaningless?” Directly across from the man is a woman wearing army pants and heavily gesticulating with her hands, fully engrossed as if she’s been here for a while. “Okay, I’ll repeat myself,” the man replies. “Are Kafka’s short stories meant to be interpreted at all? Are they allegories, or are they just strange stories meant to be strange?” You’ve unconsciously moved closer to the circle, thoroughly intrigued and a little excited, in spite of yourself. Your undergrad senior thesis was on Kafka, and you don’t remember the last time you had a conversation with anyone about something you were passionate about. Not even Lydia, whose literary interests lay in more contemporary fiction, could fully engage in a way that didn’t leave you feeling like something was missing. You have a sudden urge to jump in. “I think it’s a fair question,” you hear yourself saying. “But I'd push back against your conflation of interpretation and allegory. Interpretation isn't just a matter of finding the symbol; it’s an engagement with the text.” You’re fully seated in the circle now, and suddenly aware of everyone’s rapt attention. You continue above the nervous pounding in your chest. “I absolutely agree that Kafka’s stories are supposed to create strange, jarring effects, but I don’t see that as at all precluding interpretation or analysis.” The man in the baseball cap shifts to face you. “I’m using ‘interpretation’ in a specific sense. Let me rephrase. Is Kafka making some specific point with his stories, or is the point merely the sensation of weirdness?” “I — well, what I’m saying is...” “Not to be rude, but you're giving me platitudes that only tangentially brush against the question when I'm asking something very concrete.” Taken aback, you pause. A million thoughts race through your head and wrestle to make themselves heard. A mild-faced boy in a Hawaiian shirt chimes in. “I think the intrinsic need for interpretation runs counter to what art is and prevents the individual from fully engaging. We should always be letting art speak for itself, and just meditate on the feeling it provides.” A few people around the circle nod in agreement, but you’re barely listening. You have to get your point across. You were simply misunderstood. “*I* think,” you say, “some of the difficulty we might be dealing with here is that you’re asking us to choose between two options, and I don’t really believe either of them. If you’re interested in authorial intent, I strongly recommend reading—” “Not many authors worth engaging with approach a story merely to get a paraphrased message across,” the woman in army pants cuts in. “That virtually defeats the purpose of art. We’re not your SparkNotes, Vic.” “All of you are *missing*. *My*. *Point*.” You don’t even know this man. Why do you feel so angry? Besides his repeatedly asking the same question, there’s something agitating about his voice, his physical stance, his antagonistic attitude. You have half a mind to leave and find another group, but an invisible force anchors you to the ground, to this conversation. Above you, the sky glows blue and luminous as if it were midday; you could have been here for hours and you wouldn’t even know it. Does no one here get tired? Your head begins to throb violently. “Why do I feel like you just asked this question for the sake of impressing someone?” you say, tossing forced calm out the window. “Maybe," a girl in a floral green sundress sneers, "Kafka doesn’t resonate with him because he just completely lacks the ability of abstraction." “Bet you missed the point of *Metamorphosis*, being a privileged white man who doesn’t understand what it’s like to be othered,” says the woman in army pants. “Okay everyone, honestly, all of Kafka is comedy at the end of the day....” Your headache intensifies, but you feel like you’re on a speeding train, trying to figure out when to jump. Whenever you and Lydia got into intellectual discussions, no matter how heated the disagreement, you could always find each other afterwards — it was what you loved about her. As you enter the corrupt din of voices now, you lose track of what you’re saying, the meaning behind your own words. The ever-present pressure in your ears begins to expand, and you have to raise your voice louder and louder just to hear yourself. The blossoming migraine threatens to split your head open. Eventually, you’re reduced to nothing but a disembodied voice shouting into the air. There’s no jumping off the train now. You’ve disappeared completely. From the outside, the circle looks the same as it did when you joined, a cohort of perfectly normal people immersed in conversation.

Back at the hotel, you cross the vast lobby, past the empty receptionist’s desk, and take the elevator to the second floor. When you arrive at the gallery for the workshop, the door is wide open and you see an arrangement of about fifteen to twenty easels and stools, each one already occupied. You take a step, apprehensive. “Is this the…” At the front of the room is Galaxy, who immediately turns and grins. “Hey! I’m so glad you could make it.” They address the class. “Does anyone here not have a partner?” To your right, a man in a salmon-colored jacket raises his hand. You walk over and take a seat at the empty easel next to him. He introduces himself as Violet. Galaxy announces it’s time to start the exercise and, immediately, half the room begins talking while the other half starts sketching. You thought this was supposed to be a self-portrait class, but there are no mirrors in sight. Violet smiles reassuringly, probably seeing the look on your face. “It’s okay, I’ll go first. You sketch.” Still confused, you pick up one of the charcoal pieces laid out on the easel. Your hand hovers over the blank drafting paper. “Where… how do I…” You look up and are startled to see him staring rather intensely at your face. “You have very wide eyes,” he says. “Um, like... large? Or widely set?” you say. You’ve never noticed anything abnormal about the size or placement of your eyes before. “No, no,” he says. “Like, curious. Full of questions.” He gives a rueful smile and a shrug. “Sorry, it’s my first time.” “It’s okay!” you say hurriedly. “Uh...” You begin sketching, though you’re not sure what eyes full of questions are supposed to look like. You start to draw a rough outline of your face from memory, then hesitate. “What does — sorry, I know this sounds silly — what does my head look like?” Violet lights up like that was the right question to ask. “Yeah, uh... You have a bit of a timid posture, and an expressive way of moving your head. So... the way you tilt your head tends to give away your thoughts. Which makes you very approachable, actually. Unintimidating.” “Any physical attributes?” you ask, starting to get desperate. “Ear shape? Size of my forehead?” His brow furrows, and it’s clear he’s genuinely puzzled. You feel a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Try switching,” Galaxy says. You whip around and open your mouth to ask what the hell this exercise is, and to complain that Violet’s being deliberately confusing, but they’re already crossing the room. You have no choice. You push your easel to the side and face your partner, making eye contact. He has his materials out and his hand is poised over his easel, ready. You study his face for a moment, taking in every inch. Brows, cheeks, lips, nose.... It slowly dawns on you that Violet *was* doing this right. There really is no way to describe him other than the truth of what you see. “You have... a gentle mouth,” you say, and Violet begins sketching. You can’t see his paper from this angle, but you continue. “And hopeful eyes. You’re very approachable, too. The slope of your nose and jawline are very soft, almost like you were... molded by hand?” — you chuckle at this, and he smiles — “and I’ve noticed your main mode of expression is your brows. The way they arch or flatten can be quite startling, it takes some getting used to.” As you speak, the words almost seem ad-libbed, barely making sense, but they still feel right to you somehow. Violet’s hand is flying across the paper, pausing now and then to smudge something with his finger or stretch his wrist. You continue describing what you see, wondering what’s so different about your eyesight in this world, or even language for that matter. Where are the concrete words for a person’s size, shape, color, build? Is it because no one here truly exists in a corporeal form? Are physical bodies just an illusion? It’s plausible. Or perhaps, everyone simply exists in a different way. You think back to all the times you fussed about your physical appearance in the old world. You’d apologize for not having presentable hair. You’d slouch if you felt too tall around people. When you were younger, you spent ten minutes every morning for a year in front of a mirror, pinching and squeezing your nose in the hopes of changing its shape. In this world, you can’t even see your nose. You can’t remember why it mattered so much. Violet grins and leans back. “Ta-da!” You almost knock over your stool to see. Your breath catches in your throat and you gasp. Violet’s self portrait almost fills the paper. It’s somehow not fully accurate and simultaneously the truest thing you’ve ever seen. With quick, confident strokes and empty spaces, lines drawn light as air, smudges strategically placed, Violet managed to capture the entirety of his own essence on the page. You take in the emotional truth of his eyes, ears, and mouth, the lifetime of memories imprinted on his brow. The longer you look, the more you feel you know Violet as he’s meant to be known, as a fully complex and intricate person. You’ve never felt closer to anyone. “You’re very talented,” you say with hushed awe. “So are you,” Violet laughs. You finally tear your eyes away from the page to face him. “Thank you,” he says, his eyes glinting. He begins packing up his materials. “I hope we see each other again.” He rises to leave and you’re suddenly aware of the scraping of stools and the animated chatter of people exiting the room. The class is over. [[Stay|Workshop2]] [[Leave|Swimming pool]]

You turn your attention to the bright light shining through the glass door across the room, casting an oblique white rectangle on the floor. Sunshine? Does the door lead outside? Are you allowed to *leave*? “Duh,” the woman says. You didn’t realize you were speaking out loud. “This ain’t the Hotel California.” Then she bursts into a hearty fit of snorts and giggles, apparently pleased with her joke. You roll your eyes and make your way past the chaise sofas, distracted, for a moment, by the way they seem to flatten as you move closer to them and expand again as you walk away. You push the door open and step outside. [[Forward|Outside]]

You pass through a doorless archway at the end of the hall marked "Library". You’re not sure what you were expecting — a grand, old-fashioned chamber filled with heavy wood and the smell of parchment? A generic public school-type media center with outdated computers and metal bookshelves? — but you didn’t expect this. The hotel library is a dazzling white open space with no windows; instead, each wall is covered from floor to ceiling with books crammed tightly together, a barricade of knowledge. The space is illuminated by ceiling lights shining so intensely you can’t look up without being momentarily blinded. In the middle of the room are rows of odd, screen-like rectangles hovering in empty space above rows of suede blue armchairs. You approach the nearest one, gently touch it with one finger. It immediately awakens and pulls up a single search bar with a touch screen keyboard below. Heart beating fast, you cast a quick glance around you to make sure you’re alone. You type the first thing that comes to your mind: *where am i right now*. 218 results appear on the screen. To your disappointment, you scroll to find only a random assortment of news and magazine articles. > "ValleyCats’ Willy Garcia says collision changed his career." > > "Reality Star Zach Rance Comes Out as Bisexual, Reveals Celeb Hookup." > > "Busy Philipps’s Favorite Bra is $40 and So Comfortable She Wears It All Day Long." > > "Why Toast Prioritizes Cross-Functional Development." How any of these could even remotely be related to your query is anyone’s guess. Giving up on easy answers, and realizing with dismay that this wide open space offers nowhere to hide should you need it, you decide to try to find clues in the books that line the wall. From a young age you always found comfort in libraries; even in recent years, as you've found yourself too listless pick up anything new or finish the ones you started, you still like to wander into public libraries and remember what it was like as a child, to curl up in one corner of the floor where the librarian couldn’t see you, fully engrossed in a book. Sometimes you go in to escape from the rain or cold, or to rest after walking around the city. You love that libraries are some of the only places left that let you in without demanding anything from you. Running your hand absentmindedly against a wall of contemporary and young adult literature, you freeze when you spot a familiar title, accompanied by a familiar name. *A Missing Echo*. Lydia Huang. Her first novel. You pull out the faded red paperback and find that it’s been slightly torn and crinkled and heavily dog-eared. A million memories flood your mind, visions of a time before things went bad. She used to call you every day to talk about the little things, like seeing an abnormally large rat while taking the subway, or the big things, like the day an agent finally accepted her manuscript. You shove the book back into its tight spot on the shelf. You feel a sudden ache for home and a growing unease at the thought of not being able to go back. The answers may be hidden somewhere in this hotel, or somewhere outside of it. [[Stay|Art gallery]] [[Leave|Library stairwell]]

Head spinning, you trail behind the rest of them. “What are you up to later?” You turn around. Galaxy, packing up their materials, glides over and leans casually against the door frame. You feel exposed in the best way, wondering how they must see you, what secrets they’ve found etched in the lines of your face. For the first time in a long time, you’re gripped by a strong desire for someone to know you. “I’m not sure,” you respond. “Will I see you again?” They smile their magnetic smile and something in your chest flutters. “I’ll be around,” they say. You find your way down the hall leading back to the elevators with the vague idea that Room 132, being the only familiar place, is where you can collect your thoughts. Something in you buzzes with a sense of infinite possibility. You think back to the kindness you found at the Forum, the intimacy of Violet's self portrait. There's a feeling of true human connection here. The world and all its basic assumptions have been irreversibly flipped, and if there’s a misery here that could ever equate what you’ve felt back home, you haven’t seen it yet. No, you realize, the hotel room won’t do, you need movement. You pass the elevators, following the signs to the indoor swimming pool. The room is empty, but there’s no echo as you walk to the edge of the shallow end. Up close, the water emits a low hum. The color is unlike anything you’ve ever seen, so brilliant and opaque it looks bottomless. You remember, disappointed, that you don’t have a swimsuit, though you’re not sure where to find one here. Many years ago, the night before you asked her to marry you, Lydia led you to the lake behind her parents’ summer house and you watched, breathless, as she stripped down to bare skin and slid into the water, her eyes never leaving yours. You followed her in, even though the water was cold and algae-ridden, even though you’d never swum naked before, let alone in front of another person. Despite being madly in love, you were grateful for the blackness of the water being unable to reflect yourself back to you. This time, blissfully free of self-awareness, in a world without mirrors, you peel off your clothes and toss them aside without a second thought. You can barely feel the air on your skin. When you descend the stairs into the pool and launch yourself off the last step with a decisive kick, your stomach drops as if you've stepped off a cliff and are now free falling into a void. It's more air than water, you realize, and then you're fully submerged in an infinite cloud, pulling your body into and against itself. The gentle swish of your hair around your face is the only tangible thing. Chlorine blue pulses into robin's egg blue, sage green, celadon, a flash of violet. You wonder if there was ever a high like this back home, if ever a drug existed that could invoke this simultaneous numbness and euphoria. The water is neither warm nor cold; you dip and surface and forget where the air ends and water begins. You lose track of time. You lose track of your body's movements. You lose track of everything except your own throat, suddenly sensitive to the way saliva slides down with a trace of chlorine when you swallow, the opening of your esophagus when you gasp for air. "Watch this," you hear in a space somewhere outside of yourself. There's barely time to push wet hair from your eyes when you hear a loud splash. Galaxy's head emerges from the pool, wearing a wicked grin. “There’s something in the water,” you laugh. You're definitely out of your mind. Galaxy swims toward the shallow end until they’re standing waist deep; you realize they’re also completely naked, and as breathtaking as ever, and your stomach drops again. You watch as they gather water into their hands and launch it into the air. It rains around you like so many glittering diamonds, but something about the droplets seems odd. “Pixels,” Galaxy explains. Then they hold out their arms like wings and free fall backwards, sending even more droplets into the air. You swam in a lake once, many years ago, in the thick of the night. No, it was dawn. Was it? You were alone, or no... someone was with you. Someone important. You inhale and submerge again, seized with an urge to find the bottom. You push against the surface to sink yourself down as far as you can. Devoid of sound and sensation, the water like a vacuum swallows you whole. A dizziness fills your head; you can hear your own heart pounding in slow motion. Your eyes squeeze shut and open again. Everywhere is blue. An invisible force reels you back up to the surface and you rise, gulping mouthfuls of air in shuddering gasps. You’d forgotten that humans can’t breathe water. Galaxy floats before you, bare shoulders illuminated by the intrinsic light of the pool. They’re so close you can hear their breath quicken. You can see every detail of their face now, as if in high definition: wet hair plastered to their forehead, the brazen spirit in their eyes darkened by the shadow of their brow, a nose that twitches to betray nervousness or delight, a warm playfulness embedded in the flesh of their mouth. This is a person who, like you, loved someone once, perhaps many someones at many times, or at the same time in different ways. “You’re beautiful,” you say before you’ve even caught your breath, and then your lips are on theirs, anchoring you above the surface. They kiss you back with the mad zeal of a drowning sailor. You’ve kissed someone like this before, once upon a time, in a lake behind a house. Or was it a river? Or was it the sea? [[Forward|Galaxy]]

“Listen,” Galaxy says, rising from the stool to leave, “I’m meeting up with some friends later at Club Eterno a few blocks down. Join me?” You feel yourself nod, dazed with excitement. Not only because they said *join me* instead of *join us*, but also because, for the first time since waking up, you don’t want to find a way home to your cramped, dingy, wife-less apartment in Brooklyn. You could stay. Since you won’t be meeting Galaxy for another few hours and don’t know where else to go, you return to Room 132. The glow of the walls and drapes aren’t as intense as when you first woke up, a sign that your eyes have adjusted. One thing, though, has changed: the once-empty wardrobe is now bursting with clothes. You comb through the most diverse inventory imaginable, tailored suits and floral miniskirts and denim overalls and paisley button-downs. You select a pair of navy pinstripe dress pants and a white cotton T-shirt. Dressing without a mirror is surprisingly easy; when the pants stretch too tight across your thighs, you switch into a more comfortable, plum-colored pair and don’t think too much of it. You run a few fingers through your hair. The sky is still shining a vibrant blue when you step out of the hotel lobby and make your way down the street, in the opposite direction of your earlier wanderings. When you reach the club entrance, you wonder if you’re in the right place, despite the neon sign flashing its name: there’s no door, just a pitch black entrance to dead silence. Inside, you continue down a narrow, dimly lit hallway until you see flashing lights ahead and feel the deep bass thumping against the stone walls around you. It’s been years since you last went to a club. Feeling awkward, you sweep your eyes across the crowded dance floor, your back against the wall while deafening Latin music blasts a dynamic energy throughout the room. Couples press hip to hip and lips to neck, groups of girls form circles with drinks in hand and laugh and shimmy without abandon. Then you see her, and your heart stops: Lydia, somehow there on the dance floor, Lydia in a fiery red dress, nipples pushing against the bodice, hair flying as she spins and spins. You blink furiously — it can’t possibly be her — she seductively matches your gaze and no, it’s not her, it’s someone else entirely. Someone nearby calls your name, and you jerk your head so hard your neck cracks. It’s Violet, wearing a flowy, salmon-colored dress and a sloppy grin. “Come with me!” he says, grabbing your hand. You cast one last glance at the woman in red and shake your head to dispel the disturbing vision. Violet pulls you to a table of unfamiliar people and begins introducing you; at the end of the table, you see Galaxy in an irresistible black suit, eyes fixated on you. You don’t hear anyone’s name. Galaxy appears next to you with an empty glass in one hand. “Glad you could make it.” “I didn’t fix my hair,” you tell them sheepishly. You have to raise your voice to be heard above the blasting music. They laugh. “Want a drink?” You shake your head. “Five months sober,” you say. You begin to feel awkward again; what does a sober person do at a club? At the table, Galaxy’s friends hook elbows and stumble off to the dance floor. One of them — you didn’t catch her name — approaches you with a mischievous smile and discreetly opens her palm to reveal two pink, triangular pills. You look at Galaxy, who takes one of them and gives you an encouraging nod. “It’s a safe dose,” they say, “but you don’t have to.” Why are you sober again? The reasons seem so far off all of a sudden, and besides, you never had a drug problem. You take the pill and swallow hard. You’re on the dance floor with Galaxy, who’s finishing their second drink, when it hits: a numbing sensation grips your toes and crawls up your legs, stomach, chest, reaches out to your fingertips. Your skin feels light as air; you lift your hands to your face and feel a fleshy mouth that doesn’t belong to you. You look over at Galaxy, who’s squeezing and prodding their face in the same way, and you both burst into laughter. The music fades out into the distance and then fades back into a place deep in your chest, so that waves of sound and euphoria emanate outward from your body. It must be affecting your eyesight too, because Galaxy’s outline is starting to blur. Blue, yellow, purple lights flash from above with greater intensity and you blink hard, in case it’s an illusion, but it's real, Galaxy’s features are becoming increasingly distorted and translucent, as though they’re suddenly made of water. “Where are you going?” you ask, alarmed. Galaxy holds your face in their hands. “It’s okay,” they shout into your ear. You look around and everyone is disappearing, leaving behind only outlines for the flashing lights to bounce off, though every chair and table in the room remains solid. You look down at your arms, then the rest of your body, becoming transparent and watery like the rest of them. You quickly grip Galaxy’s hands as if you’re drowning, and their hands rest around your neck, and then you’re both dancing, blissfully free of self-awareness, pulsing to an internal rhythm that’s perfectly synced and that no one else can hear. When they kiss you, it’s not lips touching lips but something deep inside of them touching something deep inside of you. It’s as if you’ve been stripped down to your purest essence, a timeless version of yourself that isn’t stained with pain or grief. You kiss them back with fervor as the music in your bones booms, pulses, engulfs and then becomes you completely. In a distant world you once knew, memory was just an inadequate representation of life, a delusion, a story you would tell yourself. In a world with no time, memory has no use, identity can be constructed as a constantly present state of being; this moment, the dance floor, the breathtaking person in your arms, is all you ever knew. You realize you’ve found what you’ve been searching for all these years: oblivion. [[Stay|Dance club death]] [[Leave|Galaxy]]

The short walk to Galaxy’s apartment, holding hands, is a blur. When you enter, the apartment is a mess of paint supplies, unfinished sketches, empty takeout boxes, collapsed towers of books. They immediately cross the room to close every curtain in an attempt to dim the persistent light. Your high has begun to wear off and you take in the mess, fascinated. They lead you to the bed and you collapse together, fully clothed. For the next few hours, or perhaps days, or weeks, you both lie there in a state of timeless rapture, talking, occasionally kissing, occasionally a little more than kissing. They talk about struggling to sell their art, coasting between short term jobs before finding the hotel. You tell them about a faraway place called Brooklyn and a woman named Lydia, though you’re not sure how these things relate to you. Sometimes, after a long moment of silence, your brain goes fuzzy. At one point, you confess that you could see yourself staying. “This is the way to live,” you say. “I can change my name, I don't have to care what I look like, and people will still see me for who I truly am.” Galaxy furrows their brow. “I’ve never met anyone who's not from here.” They stroke your hand, not meeting your eye. “It’s… possible you can’t stay. Something bad could happen. Or, maybe, nothing.” There’s only one way to know. [[Stay|Final death]] [[Leave|Home]]

You’re still staring at Violet’s portrait as the last of the students filter out. You think you’re alone until you hear Galaxy’s voice: “They’re all exquisite, aren’t they?” They’re a few feet away, studying another easel. Despite your shyness, you make your way over to take a look: a woman with immense sadness etched into every line of her face, the soft crevices of her mouth formed by pain and anxiety. The sketch tells a tragic story that you don’t want to know but somehow feel you already do. An ache in your chest blossoms like a hunger. “These drawings are unbelievable,” you say. “Do you get the same students every week?” “Some of them are regulars, but their self portraits are never quite the same each time. Most of the people here are first-timers, like you.” Galaxy turns to you and chuckles. “Well, maybe not exactly like you.” “What do you mean?” They lean one hand against a stool and slip another into their pocket. The casual movement, along with the intensity of their eyes boring into yours, sends a sensual chill down your spine and you blush and look away, caught off guard. “You’re not supposed to be here, are you?” Galaxy says softly. You’ve dreaded admitting it to anyone, but something in their tone makes you feel safe. You hesitate, then shake your head, like a child who's just been told they won't get in trouble if they tell the truth. “I invited you to my workshop today,” they say, “because I wanted you to experience something you’ve never experienced before. Something magical.” “So, is this world... magic?” “No.” Galaxy shakes their head and chuckles. “Not to us, anyway. This —" they lift their arms out and gesture around the room — "is simply a society where everyone lives as their most authentic self.” You consider this for a moment. It raises more questions than it answers, but the more you think about it, the more it feels true. Every interaction you’ve had since you woke up in the hotel room has struck you with irrefutable honesty. Each person you’ve met has been wildly different from the other, endless permutations of quirks and idiosyncrasies to form individual beings, and yet they’ve never once betrayed a lack of sincerity. In the deep recesses of your memory you recall a place before this one, a place where people would try, and sometimes fail and sometimes succeed, to perform false versions of themselves for the world around them. They would do it for desire or for survival. They did it so much for so long that they knew no other way to live. You did it, too. “I wonder what my most authentic self is like,” you say. Galaxy’s eyes flicker over your face, studying it as if gathering data. “You are full of questions,” they finally say. “And a deeply buried thirst for the full range of human experience and connections. You will find that here. Remember, everyone already sees you for who you are. You’ll see how much your eyes are opened when you can’t hide.” It’s a frightening thought — and, in a way, liberating. The people you met at The Forum accepted you and each other with open arms, and so quickly, you forget why you ever worried that anyone wouldn’t. You could believe that rejection doesn’t exist here. You could believe that, in this world, no one would leave you. “How often have you changed your name?” you ask. Galaxy smiles. “The last time was many years ago,” they say. “I just found the perfect fit.” You gaze into the infinite depths of their eyes, feel their magnetic pull, and you know, without a doubt, that they’re right. [[Forward|Dance club]]

You’re still with Galaxy when the two of you begin to slowly flicker back into visibility. As if on cue, Galaxy’s friend, barely a silhouette, finds you and slips another pink pill into your hand. It looks like it’s floating in air while resting on your mostly translucent palm. “Are you sure?” Galaxy says. You’re not sure; in fact, you have no thoughts in your head at all. You tilt your head back and slide the pill down your throat like a tiny pebble down a stream. The same song has been playing for hours, it seems, or maybe you’ve lost your ability to hear the music. You can only feel it pulsing through your body, your bones vibrating. Fully invisible now, you bask in the freedom from outside perception, letting your limbs swing unrestrained. The energy in the room swells from collective joy to synchronized chaos as bodies disappear, each person moving with rapturous frenzy. You’re not sure if Galaxy has disappeared too, or if they simply left; you don’t feel them near you anymore. The physical world slowly dissolves as you become submerged in a euphoric numbness. One day, when you were seven, you returned from recess flushed with giddiness, unable to keep quiet or still. What was it about that day, the sun high in the sky, the tetherball game? Ms. Gupta glared over her red half moon glasses, scolded you three times before sentencing you to the back of the classroom, alone. After the lesson, as you walked back to your desk, fighting tears, someone sympathetic leaned over and whispered something in your ear. What was their name? What did they say? Your head is throbbing. Some invisible force has carried you from the edge of the crowd to right in the middle; you can’t see much of anyone besides the faint outlines of their bodies, but you can feel them bumping, pushing, tousling you in all directions. You fall in and out of sync with them. When the tousling doesn't stop, a faint panic rises in your chest but is quickly quelled by the euphoria still rushing through your veins. You’re not sure when your head hits the floor, or when you begin gasping for air; still dazed with numbness, you put up your hands to desperately ward off hordes of heavy shoes and razor-thin stilettos, completely unaware of your presence. Your body collects bruises as your throbbing headache escalates into a blinding migraine. The flashing club lights above glare down angrily. Before everything goes black, the last thing you see is a floating pair of red half moon glasses.

One day, about a year after you woke up in the hotel, you’re overwhelmed by a sudden urge to document the touch of grass. Sitting at Galaxy’s kitchen table, you flip open your journal and rack your brains. Individual blades of grass are rough, a bit sticky. A handful of grass is soft and pliable, but surprisingly... spiky? It can be damp with morning dew or dry as dirt. It's in the middle of this exercise, bent over your journal, where Galaxy finds you. They swiftly bend down to give you a kiss on the cheek before moving to the kitchen to boil water for coffee. “What are you writing?” Galaxy asks. “The touch of grass,” you say, somewhat sheepishly. Deep down you don't want to admit, not even to yourself, how difficult remembering has become. There was a world apart from this where powerful sensations steered entire aspects of life, like the burn of tea that hasn’t had enough time to cool, the plush texture of a sheepskin winter coat, the whip of a cold breeze waging war against your skin. Perhaps, also, you're a little ashamed of your desire to remember. You have to believe that what you gave up is worth everything you’ve gained. And anyway, no one likes to think ill of their own choices. “Can you believe it's been a year?” you muse out loud, partly to yourself. Living here has been pure bliss, endless days at the Forum with friends or holed up in the hotel library alone, reading everything you’ve ever wanted to. You change names every two weeks, wearing them like hats until you find one that fits. Sometimes, you drift off into a daydream where you’re floating in that incandescent blue swimming pool at the hotel, naked limbs spread out, peaceful and timeless in your freedom. Galaxy gives you a look. “Darling. It’s been three.” You’re jolted from your reverie, unsure if you heard correctly. “Sorry — years? *Three*?” Galaxy takes a seat at the kitchen table, setting a steaming cup of coffee before your open journal. “I need to tell you something.” They take a deep breath. “Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I reach under the covers for your hand and it's gone. Not moved, just gone. Missing. And I keep searching in a panic and then, suddenly, your hand is back.” You blink, not comprehending. “Last week,” Galaxy continues, “you tried to use the stepladder to reach a high cupboard in the kitchen. Your foot went right through the first step. You looked down like you thought you missed it... but honey, you didn’t.” It’s like they’re speaking a foreign language, one where you understand each word individually but not when strung together in sequence. You have no recollection of a ladder incident, you’ve never looked down to find your own hand missing. Have you? You laugh nervously, trying to lighten the dread in Galaxy’s eyes. “Has this ever happened to you?” They sigh. “I have to say this to you. I love you. You don’t belong here.” You want to respond, but there's nothing to say when you can’t trust your own mind. Your temple begins to throb and you feel dizzy, like you’ve just stepped off a carousel going too fast. Someone once told you, a long time ago, that you live too much in your head, that if you don’t step out of introspection once in a while and if you keep obsessing over what people think of you, you’ll miss out on this finite life of yours. No one ever told you that even when you decide to participate, life will pass through you anyway. Choosing to stay in this place, with all its wonderful experiences, seems terribly pointless if you can’t contain those experiences in your memory. Choosing to love someone... *Can* you love someone in a neverending present? Isn’t real love made of shared memories, of uncovering someone’s intimate details over the achingly slow passage of time? Someone once told you... a long time ago... you live too much in your head.... Someone told you... she wants to have children. Who was that? Head pounding, you get up from the table and mutter that you need to lie down. You feel Galaxy’s worried gaze follow you as you take slow steps toward the bedroom, carefully watching each limb to assure yourself you’re still solid. You cast your eyes around the room, over the foreign details of your life here. A faded book rests on the bedside table, crinkled and torn and heavily dog-eared: *A Missing Echo* by Lydia Huang. You know it’s your book, but don’t know what it’s about; the author’s name is special, but you can’t remember why. Gripped with fatigue, you collapse onto the bed and suddenly you’re falling... falling... falling.... Your flailing body plummets into a vast nothing, and you're unable to scream, unable to make a sound.

It isn’t clear what time of day it is when you and Galaxy decide to have breakfast, though you eventually have to give in to the dull gnaw of your stomach. Galaxy pulls the curtain back from each window to let daylight flood the room. At the kitchen table, you drink coffee in silence, nibble around the edges of a slice of toast. You feel the crunch between your teeth but taste nothing. The fresh aroma of the coffee, too, is missing, and for the first time since you got here, you realize you’ve found something you can’t live without. “These past few weeks have been amazing,” they say, reaching across the table to take your hand. You try to hide your shock, but you know it must have sprung into your eyes. You had no idea how long it's been. You wonder what it would be like to live this way, to have time constantly slipping away from you. Would you enjoy it? Would it kill you? “It sounds like you’re saying goodbye,” you say wryly. “I haven’t decided yet.” “I think you have.” Your mother told you once, when you were a teenager, that the emotional weight of life events is inversely related to your age; when something bad happens, it’s far more devastating when you’re younger. She told you this to comfort you after your first heartbreak, and you remember thinking that it doesn’t matter if it’s only devastating because you’re young, it hurts all the same. You thought the same thing after she died, though you weren’t so young by then. Every time you try to picture her face, the details slip further and further away, as if you’re seeing her through frosted glass. Another thing you can’t live without. You take a bland sip of coffee and set the mug back down. You catch something blue in the corner of your eye and turn your head. Leaned against the wall, across from the table, is a nearly-finished painting of a naked figure submerged in a glittering pool of water, twisting, floating, suspended, free. You walk over to take a closer look and realize, startled, that the figure is you. You feel Galaxy’s hand rest gently on your shoulder. “You’ll find your way back to me,” they say. The plan is to go back to the hotel room where you woke up and hope something happens. They offer to accompany you, but you’d rather say your goodbye here, where you have control over how you leave. Your feet carry you back to the hotel while you’re lost in thought. You take the elevator to the third floor and find your way down the high-ceilinged hallway to Room 132. Not sure what to do next, you climb on top of the queen bed — the sheets have been fixed while you were away — and face the ceiling. You faintly recall how it shone so bright and incandescent the first time you saw it, before your eyes adjusted. You close your eyes and lie as still as you can. When you open your eyes to the ceiling of your Brooklyn apartment, the first thing that strikes you is how dull and muted everything looks. You scramble to turn on every light you can find, but it isn’t the same. You realize with a pang that it never will be. Suddenly hungry for fresh air, you climb out onto the fire escape and you’re immediately struck by a car alarm that threatens to split your head open. You squeeze your hands over your ears until it stops. You take a few deep breaths, then rest your hands on the metal railing and tilt your head upwards, towards the sky. Memories begin to fade, the details of your time away and the person who captivated you are already growing hazy, but it doesn’t make you sad. You don’t need to remember to know you enjoyed it. Above you, the sun shines with summer’s eternal lust and casts its warmth over every part of you, your arms, lips, eyelids, neck, as if it’s whispering to you, as if it’s trying to tell you something. > __End__

foundGallery: false -- You’re about to turn back towards the archway when something odd catches your eye: on a shelf slightly above you, a copy of *Invisible Man* by Ralph Ellison, only it doesn’t look like it’s made of paper and ink like the rest of the books. You reach up to grab it, but at the slightest touch it immediately shudders and recedes into the wall with a *hsss*. You hear a low, deep grumbling and the wall begins to shake. You grab the nearest blue armchair to steady yourself, and watch in amazement as a door-sized portion of the wall dislodges itself and swings open to reveal a secret stairway behind it. Afraid of the unknown but more afraid of what may befall you if you stay, you descend the stairs as quickly as you can. At the bottom is a heavy-looking metal door. You push it open and step outside. [[Forward|Outside]]

>*Out of the Blue* >by Aiya Madarang [[Read|Prologue]]