❝ you already hurt my feelings three times in a way only you could ❞
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029. no surprises, please
𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆, Ingrid woke up in her childhood bed. The room was suffused with the hazy light of early spring, golden streaks filtering through the yellowed curtains. But something was wrong. The light wasn’t quite right — it was too slanted, too warm. It wasn’t morning.
She groaned as she shifted, lifting a hand to rub the sleep from her eyes, only to freeze as a sharp, searing pain shot through her skull. It reverberated like a cruel echo, pulsing from her temples and settling behind her eyes. The groan turned into a hiss as she clutched her head, waiting for the stabbing to subside. When it finally dulled, she blinked through the haze and tried to make sense of her surroundings.
Then the panic hit.
The room felt... wrong. Familiar yet foreign, like a memory dredged up from the depths of her mind, distorted and incomplete. The closed door seemed to leer at her, its peeling white paint grinning as though it knew something she didn’t. The silence in the room was oppressive, thick and unnatural, broken only by the unsteady rhythm of her heart pounding against her ribs. Her palms were slick with sweat as she gripped the edge of the floral bedsheets, the fabric bunched tightly in her fists.
Out of the corner of her eye, something moved — a shadow, tall and looming, cast against the far wall. Her breath caught, and her head snapped toward it, her muscles tensing. But when her gaze landed on the corner, there was nothing there. The room was as empty as it had been for years, yet the sense of being watched persisted, crawling up her spine.
She inhaled sharply, trying to steady herself, but even the air felt heavy, stale. It smelled faintly of dust and something sour, as though the room had been sealed away for too long. The stuffed animals on the shelves watched her in silent judgment, their button eyes reflecting the dim light like they were alive. She shuddered and looked away, but the sense of unease clung to her, sticky and inescapable.
The walls seemed closer now, their pastel pink paint darkened with age, and they felt as though they were leaning inward. The longer she stayed, the tighter the space became, until it felt like the room itself was closing in on her, suffocating her.
Her breath quickened. She had to get out.
Kicking off the covers, she bolted from the bed, her bare feet thudding against the cold wooden floor. The door slammed shut behind her as she fled, the sound echoing down the narrow hallway like a gunshot. She didn’t dare look back, her heart pounding in her ears as she descended the staircase two steps at a time, her hand brushing against the smooth, timeworn banister.
At the bottom of the stairs, she froze.
The sharp, acrid smell of dust and old wood had been replaced by the rich, comforting aroma of breakfast. Bacon, eggs, maybe even pancakes. For a moment, it almost felt real — like home. The air felt lighter here, carrying with it the faint hum of a radio playing from the kitchen. Ingrid’s racing heart began to slow as she followed the scent, her steps cautious.
