Prologue

Prologue: The Breath Between

They say the city never sleeps. But I do—not in rest, not in peace, but in fragments. I sleep in elevators, in the hum of fluorescent lights, in the pause between subway announcements. I sleep with my eyes open, watching the world blur past like a film I forgot auditioning for.

I am not dead. But I am not entirely alive.

There’s a room I return to each night. Dim. Unremarkable. A desk, a window, a blinking cursor. The walls don’t echo—they absorb. I sit there, haunted not by ghosts, but by the absence of meaning. The voice in my head is not mine, but it speaks truths I cannot unhear: “I always feel out of the world…”

I drift through routines like a shadow stitched to someone else’s life. I nod when spoken to. I smile when required. I perform. But beneath the surface, something is unraveling. A thread pulled too tight. A breath held too long.

Sometimes, I see myself in surveillance footage. Not metaphorically—literally. A figure with my face, my gait, but not my eyes. Sometimes, I receive letters I don’t remember writing. Sometimes, I remember things that never happened.

And sometimes, I forget who I was before the forgetting began.

There was a photo once—me, as a child, smiling. But the smile changed. The others in the frame faded. I held it to the light, hoping for clarity. All I found was distortion.

Now, I document. Not to remember, but to prove I existed. Journal entries. Voice recordings. Sketches of faces I might have known. I write not to be read, but to resist erasure.

This is not a story of rescue. There is no savior. No revelation. Only a rupture. A breath. A choice.

I begin here. With nothing. With everything.

"Everyone around me was chasing something—efficiency, escape, illusion. I stood still. Not out of fear, but out of refusal.

I grew up in a house where silence was safer than truth. My father counted hours; my mother counted sacrifices. We didn’t speak of longing—we managed it. Mira, my sister, was the only one who ever asked why. She left early. I stayed.

Now I work in strategy. I help systems run smoother, cleaner, quieter. I’m good at it. But every spreadsheet feels like a small betrayal. The coffee tastes like compromise. The office hums with fluorescent lies. And every “How are you?” feels like a dare to answer honestly.

I live alone. My apartment is neat, untouched by joy. I keep the blinds closed—not out of secrecy, but because the view feels rehearsed.

Lately, I’ve started noticing the seams. In the system. In the language. In myself.

No rebellion yet. Just recognition.

And recognition is a kind of beginning."

Some days, I count the lies I’ve told just to keep the peace. “I’m fine.” “Just tired.” “Glad to help.” Each one leaves a trace—like dust on glass, barely visible until the light hits right. I’m beginning to see the light. Not blinding. Just enough to notice myself.

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