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The ceiling is still there when she opens her eyes again, which is unfair because she doesn’t remember closing them in the first place. It sits above her, flat and unresponsive, holding the dark like it belongs to it. Sayori stares up at it as if there might be something written there, something small and important that she’s been missing this entire time, some instruction or explanation but it refuses to give anything back. The longer she looks, the more it feels like the room is pressing downward, not enough to crush her, just enough to remind her that there is nowhere else to go. Her heart does something wrong. It doesn’t stop, it doesn’t race, it just lurches, a heavy, clumsy movement like it’s forgotten the rhythm it’s supposed to keep.
The sensation drops through her chest and settles somewhere lower, leaving a hollow ache behind it that spreads outward, slow and nauseating. She inhales too quickly, and the air feels thin, like it’s been used already. There is a moment, brief and stupid and completely convincing, where she thinks she might be dying. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way that would be worth telling anyone about, just quietly. Incorrectly. It would make sense, she thinks. It would explain the heaviness, the dizziness, the way her body feels like it’s lagging behind her thoughts by half a second. Something internal finally giving out after being stretched too far for too long. Her stomach turns, a soft, persistent nausea that doesn’t build into anything, just sits there like a warning that never finishes its sentence. She presses the back of her hand against her mouth, not because she thinks she’ll be sick, but because the feeling needs somewhere to go, and her body doesn’t know what else to do with it.
If she were a better person, she thinks, this would feel different. That thought arrives fully formed, without hesitation, as if it’s been waiting for the right moment to step forward. If she were better, if she were kinder—more honest, less wrong, then maybe nights like this wouldn’t happen, or they would at least mean something. There would be a reason, a cause that could be pointed to and named, something that would make this feel justified instead of… self-inflicted. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? She shifts slightly against the mattress, the movement small and careful, like she’s afraid of disturbing something fragile. The sheets are twisted around her legs, warm in a way that feels suffocating rather than comforting. Everything is too much and not enough at the same time, every sensation turned just slightly out of place.
She did this.
Not in a single moment, not in a way that could be traced back and fixed, but gradually, quietly, over time. She built something inside herself that doesn’t work properly, something that turns ordinary days into this—this slow, sinking feeling that starts somewhere unnoticeable and then fills up everything else without asking. It would almost be impressive, if it weren’t so pathetic. She lets out a small breath that might have been a laugh if it had any energy behind it. “Good job,” she thinks, the words soft and automatic, the same tone she uses when she’s trying to keep things light. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time.” The ceiling doesn’t respond. Of course it doesn’t. No one does, at this hour. Her phone is somewhere to her right, just out of reach without turning her head.
She knows exactly where it is without looking, can picture the faint outline of it against the dark, the blank screen waiting to be lit up. The idea of reaching for it slips into her mind, not as hope, but as habit. That’s what people do, isn’t it, when they feel like this. They reach out. They say something. They let someone else hold a piece of it for a while. Except there is no one to reach. She knows the time without checking. It’s the kind of knowing that settles deep into your bones, your skull. After enough nights spent awake like this, tracking the silence, measuring the world by what isn’t happening. Everyone is asleep. The entire world has collectively agreed to shut itself off, to step away from consciousness and leave her here alone with a version of it that doesn’t include anyone else.
It’s not rejection. She tells herself carefully, firmly, like she’s placing something fragile down on a stable surface. It’s not rejection, because they don’t know. It’s not abandonment, because they haven’t left. They’re just… not here. Which is reasonable. Which is normal. Which makes it worse. Because if this is what normal looks like, if this is what the world is supposed to feel like when nothing is wrong, then the problem must be contained entirely within her. There’s nowhere else to put it. No external cause to point to, no circumstance to blame. Just her. Always her. Her heart stutters again, a sharp, unpleasant movement that makes her breath hitch. The nausea spikes briefly, enough to make her close her eyes, pressing them shut against the darkness like that might change something. It doesn’t. The feeling lingers, thick and uncomfortable, spreading into her limbs until even lying still feels like effort.
Maybe this is what it feels like, she thinks, right before something gives out completely. The idea doesn’t scare her as much as it should. That’s the part that sits wrong. There should be panic here, urgency, some instinct pushing her to move, to fix it, to do anything other than lie here and observe the slow malfunction of her own body. Instead there’s just this dull, distant curiosity, like she’s watching it happen to someone else. She imagines, briefly, what it would look like from the outside. A girl lying in bed. Awake. Quiet. There is nothing alarming about that. Nothing that would make someone stop, look closer, realize that something underneath the surface has shifted into a shape that doesn’t belong.
She swallows, the motion dry and uncomfortable. Of course there isn’t. She is very good at making sure of that. It’s almost funny, in a way that doesn’t reach her face. She has spent so much time learning how to be easy to look at, how to smooth herself into something soft and harmless and bright, something that fits neatly into other people’s lives without causing disruption. She knows exactly how to tilt her head, how to laugh at the right moment, how to turn concern into reassurance before it has a chance to settle. She has made herself into something that doesn’t require attention. And now, now she is lying here, feeling like her chest is caving in around something that won’t stop moving, and there is no one to notice because she has taught them not to. That’s not their fault. She is careful about that, even now.
It would be easier if it were their fault. Anger would be simpler to hold than this slow, inward discomfort. But she can’t have that, because she knows better. She knows them. She knows they care. She just made sure they would never have to prove it like this. Her eyes sting again, the tears coming more steadily now, though the rest of her remains still. They slip sideways into her hair, damp and cooling, and she lets them. There is no point in wiping them away. There is no audience to hide them from, no one to reassure. It feels strangely inappropriate, crying like this without anyone to see it. Like she’s wasting something. If a feeling happens and no one is there to witness it, she ponders, the thoughts forming slowly, carefully, does it still matter the same way. She almost laughs at that, because of course it matters. Of course it does.
Except.
Except it doesn’t change anything.
The tears don’t fix the heaviness. The heaviness doesn’t justify the tears. Everything exists in parallel, disconnected, refusing to resolve into something clean or meaningful. Her thoughts shift again, quieter now, more precise. You’re exhausting, she tells herself, not unkindly, just factually. You make everything harder than it needs to be. It lands easier than she assumes it would. There is no resistance to it, no instinct to argue or defend. Why would there be?
It fits too well, aligns too neatly with everything else she knows about herself. She has always been a little too much in the wrong directions, a little too little in the ones that matter. Too emotional when it’s inconvenient. Not emotional enough when it would help. Too loud when she should be quiet. Too quiet when she should speak. She manages to get it wrong in ways that cancel each other out, leaving behind something that doesn’t quite function in any context. It would be impressive, again, if it weren’t so useless. Her chest tightens further, a deep, uncomfortable pressure that makes her shift slightly, trying to find a position that doesn’t make it worse. There isn’t one. The feeling follows her, settles back into place like it belongs there. If you disappeared, the thought begins, soft and careful, it would simplify things. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t react. She lets it finish. People would be sad, for a while. That’s normal. That’s expected. But then things would… adjust. They would settle into something easier. Lighter.
She knows this is wrong. She knows it in the same distant, intellectual way she knows facts about the world that don’t connect to her directly. People don’t just “adjust” to losing someone. It leaves marks. It changes things. She knows that. And yet—The version of her that exists in other people’s lives feels so specific, so contained, that it’s easy to imagine it being replaced, or at least absorbed. The space she takes up doesn’t feel solid. It feels negotiable. Like it could be folded up and put away without too much trouble. Her stomach turns again, sharper this time, and she presses her hand against it, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of her shirt.
“Stop,” she thinks, not loudly, not forcefully, just tired. kinda.
The thought doesn’t leave. Why would it. It’s hers. Everything here is hers. There is no external force to push against, no outside voice to interrupt the pattern. Just her own mind, turning in on itself, generating and reinforcing and reshaping the same quiet conclusions until they feel inevitable. She lies there, staring at the ceiling that refuses to change, feeling her heart beat wrong in her chest, feeling the weight of herself settle more firmly into place. This is not a moment. This is not a crisis. This is a continuation. And that, more than anything else, is what makes it unbearable. Because it means morning will come, eventually, and she will get up, and she will smooth everything back into its proper shape, and she will become the version of herself that fits.
She will laugh. She will smile. She will make it easy. And no one, not one person will realize that something inside her spent the entire night trying to have a psuedo disappearance.