FICTION – MLMM #423

The darkness rolled in like it had something to prove. Real main-character energy. Clouds stacked overhead like they were about to drop the most dramatic breakup speech ever. The wind started howling—less “otherworldly whisper” and more “Karen demanding to speak to the manager of nature.” Windows rattled like they owed the wind money. Shutters flailed with the enthusiasm of someone who just realized they left the stove on.

The scent of rain filled the room, all ominous and moody, but of course—not a single drop. Just a tease. Rain was clearly ghosting the whole event.

A candle flickered in its blue glass holder, doing its best impression of ambience. It gave off an aura of “I tried, okay?”—like it had dreams once, but then it met grad school. Its flame danced like it had no rhythm but a lot of confidence, like that guy at weddings who thinks even the Electric Slide is freestyle.

He sat cross-legged in the middle of the room, surrounded by books stacked with the precision of someone deeply avoiding emotional responsibilities. It was less a cozy reading nook and more a literary panic fort. The spines practically shouted, “Look at us! We’re important! We’re unread!” Each story melted into the next until they formed a plot smoothie that tasted suspiciously like pretentiousness and unresolved metaphors.

Sleep tiptoed in like a cat with boundary issues. He was no longer in control—just a tired, passive spectator in a dream sponsored by confusion. The haze pulled him in gently, like a sentient weighted blanket with attachment issues.

Then it got weird.

He felt the warmth of her breath on his face. Comforting. Mysterious. And deeply concerning because, again, he lived outside of a romantic subplot. Who was this woman? Did she come with the house?

Her soft, wet lips pressed to his cheek—sweet, tender, and vaguely moist, like a warm fruit snack. He didn’t question it. Honestly, he didn’t want to know. A strand of hair brushed his brow with the precision of a motivational TikTok influencer wiping away his doubts and reminding him to hydrate.

He sank deeper. Into the story. Into the illusion. Into a pile of metaphors with no exit strategy. Reality became a suggestion. One he politely ignored.

Because sometimes, in the words of others, we somehow… somehow we find our own. And other times, we fall asleep halfway through a book and wake up with a paperback stuck to our cheek and a vague sense of accomplishment.