(tw: kinda disassociating)

The dream didn’t start with violence. It started with snow.

You know the kind—soft, weightless, almost warm despite the cold, the kind that covers the town like a blanket pretending it’s protection. But it changes. The softness fades. The snow turns sharp. She starts to see recognizable figures, townsfolk, frozen within capsules of ice— and a voice, loud and robotic: ”One left.” And the sight of you, staring at her in disbelief, snow starting to surround you.

She wakes up gasping. Her room is dark. Quiet. Safe. But not right.

Not when her hands feel numb, not when her legs won’t move, not when her mouth can’t form a sound because it’s stuck somewhere between a scream and an apology. She's not sure which would come out first. She tries to ground herself—four things she can see, three things she can hear—but all she sees is snow. All she hears is static.

It’s not real. It wasn’t real. But the cold is still in her chest. Her phone is on the nightstand. Her fingers find it before her thoughts do.

She doesn’t remember pressing your contact. She only notices when your voice cuts through the silence. There’s a pause. She doesn’t speak. Just breathes. You call her name again, and that’s when she breaks. Not loudly. No sobbing. Just a whisper, like a snapped icicle cracking in her throat.

"I… I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to—"

You don’t know what she saw. She probably doesn’t either. But you know what she felt. That cold, echoing hallway. The look in her dream-self’s eyes. The way the things didn’t stop when she wanted them to.