The bed feels surprisingly solid when I lie down on it. The mattress compresses under my weight, sinking about two inches before springing back up with a faint *cush* sound that is entirely mechanical and temporary. My pillow smells like synthetic down and laundry detergent, a scent that does not carry the memory of anyone else’s dreams or the residue of time spent elsewhere. It is just my pillow, smelling of me, sitting in my room.

I close my eyes, but instead of letting them drift into that violet suspension where seconds stretch into hours or hours collapse into moments, I try to focus on the rhythm of my own breathing. In… out. A count of four, hold for four, exhale for four. It’s a technique from somewhere, maybe an old yoga video I watched once when I was sane enough to watch videos about self-care. The air moves in and out of my lungs, filling them with oxygen, then releasing carbon dioxide into the fabric of the room where it will mingle with the stillness until eventually it diffuses completely.

It’s a fragile peace. The knowledge that tomorrow morning I will wake up, brush my teeth, and step onto the same subway platform without the ability to choose whether or not I want to be there keeps me awake for a moment before sleep finally pulls me under. But even in dreams, if I’m lucky, there is no violet room waiting. Just images, random and fleeting, constructed from the day’s sensory data: the smell of burnt sugar, the weight of the book, the sound of tires on wet asphalt.

I drift off to those ordinary, unmagical thoughts, ready for whatever comes next in a world that ends when it has to end.