The Dream

He was lying next to me, deep asleep. I did not understand how he could drift off so easily. We were in his Denver apartment, and though we were sharing the same bed, we were miles apart. He didn’t reach out to touch me or even just snuggle. I felt like I was trying to pull a cord that was already broken.

The apartment was chilly; the thermostat was set to 19 degrees Celsius. For a studio with such a strong air conditioning system, it turned into a walk-in freezer quickly. The silence of the apartment felt heavy. I buried myself under the comforter, chasing warmth, until the chill of the room and the weight of the blankets blurred into sleep.

Within what felt like minutes, my eyes snapped open. I was hollow with cold, as if my very bones had frozen. I tried to get up to check the thermostat, but my body wouldn’t move. My hands and legs were paralyzed. I felt my weight increasing, expanding and bloating, pinning me to the frame. I looked next to me; he was still fast asleep, his eye mask undisturbed. My internal struggle didn’t cause a stir in him. Is this a dream? I wondered. I looked at my legs—they appeared normal under the sheets—but they refused to twitch.

“This is a dream,” I instructed myself. “Go back to sleep.” I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force the consciousness away.

After what felt like an eternity, I opened them again. I think in reality, it was two or three minutes. I tried to reach for my phone to check the time, but now my arms were leaden. Then, the sinking started. It wasn’t just a dip in the mattress; it was a slow, gravitational pull. I felt as though I were being absorbed into the bed, sinking into a space that shouldn’t exist. I was being erased by the furniture.

I shut my eyes tight, like my life depended on it. I told myself that if I felt this way when I opened them, it was real. I think I prayed, but I can’t remember clearly. The mattress wasn’t just soft; it felt like quicksand. Every time I tried to pulse a muscle, the fibers seemed to wrap around me, pulling me deeper into the frame. Moving was like trying to run underwater or push through setting concrete. My own limbs felt like they belonged to someone else—massive and unresponsive. With every ounce of energy left in my marrow, I gave a violent thrust to the side.

I moved.

With an effort that felt like levering an elephant, I forced myself out of the bed. I was standing—in real life. My knees were wobbly and I was shaky, but I was upright. The floor was cold, but it was solid. It didn’t try to swallow me.

I immediately cranked the thermostat to 24 degrees, opened a window to let life into the ice cave, and grabbed a spare blanket. I put on leggings and my puffy down jacket, waiting for the “thaw” to reach my blood. As I sat on the couch, my head felt cloudy. I didn’t want to analyze the night; I was too tired for the truth of it.

I took one last look at the bed. I saw the empty space on the left side—the small depression in the sheets that had almost consumed me only minutes ago. I felt lighter being away from it. Enveloped by the warmth of the couch, and my face next to the open window with the fresh air and the sounds of the street, sleep finally came.

Mia

© Dear Dhuniya 2026