I woke up in my room, the familiar silence settling over me as I looked at my desk. The day’s events felt like a blur, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

  I walked over to my chair, pulled it out, and sat down. My hands automatically reached for the diary on the table.

  I opened it, the pages crisp under my fingers. I started writing about my day, but my mind kept wandering.

  What was happening? Why did it feel like something was out of place?

  After a while, I closed the diary.

  As I did, something strange happened.

  I got up from my chair and walked toward the door.

  I felt something weird ticking inside my chest as I opened it.

  A sharp sound echoed in my ears, almost enough to make me deaf.

  I grabbed the door hard.

  I clasped my hands over my ears, hoping to stop it.

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  It worked.

  Then I remembered.

  Ken

  Our meeting in his realm. His world still didn’t answer his unclear intentions.

  Ken’s eyes had glimmered with something malevolent, his voice laced with confidence.

  Before he could finish, his words hit me like a punch. A surge of disbelief and horror rushed through me.

  “What kind of monster are you?” I demanded, my voice trembling.

  Ken’s smile faded for a brief moment, but only for a second. A low chuckle escaped his lips, and his eyes gleamed with twisted satisfaction.

  At his words, an evil grin stretched across his face, sending a shiver through my entire body.

  “You’re right,” I muttered under my breath, barely audible. “You’re right.”

  I took a deep breath, realizing I had been thinking about it a bit too much.

  The clock said 3:11 AM.

  Just as I opened the door and stepped out of my room, a face appeared in my mind.

  I couldn’t remember his face — only his golden hair, like the color of sunset. And his big smile.

  Who is it?

  Or maybe I do know him?

  I swallowed hard.

  I walked downstairs toward the kitchen. That’s when I noticed light coming from the living room.

  When I walked in, I saw the TV was on, the screen filled with glitching images.

  Maybe the signal is bad.

  With a groan, I slowly got up and turned off the TV.

  The living room never had any chairs.

  Then I walked slowly back to my room. As I opened the door, I made my way to the bed.

  The weight of exhaustion hung heavy on me, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the dream. The vision of Ken. The words he had spoken.

  It all felt too real.

  I lay down, closed my eyes, and let out a deep breath, falling into a deep sleep once more.

  I don’t know what this is.

  Or why.

  Or where all of this is leading.

  It feels like everything is a poorly written story.

  My story?

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