Sandwich Magic

I wake up, but it feels like I never actually slept. There’s this heavy, dull ache in my chest that I can't shake off. I sit up, and the world spins for a second, not from anything physical, but from the weight of... everything. Like my body’s tired, but it’s not from anything I’ve actually done. It’s like I’ve been carrying this invisible burden forever.

I can't remember the last time I felt good about anything. Nothing excites me, nothing makes me feel like there's something worth getting up for. It’s all just a blur of grey—every day is the same. I can’t even tell the difference between today and yesterday. 

There’s a pit in my stomach that never goes away. It doesn’t gnaw at me, not in an obvious way; it just sits there, heavy, like a stone lodged in my gut. And no matter how much I try to push it aside, to ignore it, it stays.

Sometimes I think about the things I used to want, the things that used to matter to me. But it’s all so far away now, like a dream I can’t quite reach. Maybe I just ran out of the will to chase them. Or maybe I never really cared at all, and I just thought I did.

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I found the receipt in my coat pocket on a Tuesday afternoon. I hadn’t worn this coat in years, since college, maybe - but there it was, a crumpled slip of paper with faded ink:

One (1) Ultimate Cosmic Hoagie - PAID

Total: $5.99

Date: March 18, 1924

I stared at it. Flipped it over, half-expecting to see a punchline, but there was nothing. I had no memory of ever visiting a place called "Jimmy Nebula’s Sandwich Emporium."

But the address was only a few blocks away, so, driven by a strange compulsion (and, let’s be honest, boredom), I decided to check it out. The address led me to a laundromat. At least, it looked like a laundromat. I stepped inside, where an elderly woman behind the counter barely looked up from her crossword puzzle.

“Wash-n-Fold?” she asked.

“Uh… I was looking for Jimmy Nebula’s?”

She gave me a sharp glance, then sighed and pressed a button under the counter. The entire back wall shimmered and melted away, revealing a bustling 1920s-style deli. A neon sign flickered above the counter:

EAT AT JIMMY NEBULA’S – SERVING THE TIMELESS SINCE 1903.

A man in a pinstripe apron and a handlebar mustache waved from behind the counter.

“You’re late, kid! We’ve been holding your order for a century.”

Not sure what else to do, I walked up to the counter.

“So… I bought a sandwich? A hundred years ago?”

The man grinned. “That’s right. You paid in advance. With a promise.”

“…A promise of what?”

“You don’t remember?” Jimmy Nebula, presumably - shook his head.

“A promise is a promise.”

Jimmy turned, pulled a wrapped sandwich from an old-timey icebox, and handed it over. It was heavier than I expected. Warm, but with an odd hum, like it was vibrating on a frequency just outside of human hearing.

I unwrapped it. Inside the hoagie was not just meat and cheese but a tiny, glowing galaxy, swirling between the lettuce and tomato.

The moment I laid eyes on it, memories flooded back, memories of a life I had never lived. A promise I had made to someone long ago, to return when the stars aligned. To deliver something important.

I looked up at Jimmy, suddenly breathless.

“What do I do now?”

Jimmy grinned. “You eat it, kid. And then you remember.”

I hesitated. I had spent my life feeling like something was missing, like I was always waiting for a sign. Was this it? A sandwich filled with destiny?

Slowly, I took a bite. The moment the flavors hit my tongue, the world around me blurred. The deli faded. The street outside dissolved into starry void. I was moving, or maybe I was returning—to a place, to a time, to a purpose I had long forgotten.

As the last bite disappeared, I understood. I had made a deal, a century ago, to carry a message between worlds. I had lived this life as a waiting room, but now, I was finally going home.

The laundromat returned. The old woman glanced up from her crossword.

“See you next time, kid.”

I, now fully aware of who I had been, nodded. I stepped outside, feeling the weight of the universe settle into place.

I wasn’t waiting anymore.

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I woke up, but it felt like I hadn’t really slept. There was a heaviness in my chest, something I couldn’t quite place. I sat up slowly, feeling the weight of it all, like my body had been running on empty for too long. It wasn’t physical exhaustion, more like a quiet, persistent fatigue, the kind that creeps up on you without warning.

I didn’t feel anything when I thought about the day ahead, and I hadn’t for a while. It wasn’t that I didn’t care ...

I thought about the things I used to want; they felt distant, like I was looking at someone else’s life. I wondered if I’d stopped wanting things, or if I just didn’t know how to reach for them anymore. It wasn’t a bad feeling, necessarily. It was more like... apathy. Like I’d fallen into this space where I was just floating, neither sinking nor rising.

There were moments when I wished I could feel something more, but even that desire seemed distant, like something I had once felt but couldn’t remember clearly now. I wasn’t numb. I was just... here. Going through the motions. Not unhappy, but not really happy either. Just existing.

There were no peaks, no valleys, just a long, stretched-out flatline.

But somewhere along the way, I started noticing the small things. The way the sunlight would hit the corner of the room just so, or the feeling of rain on my skin. They weren’t profound moments, but they were enough to remind me that I was still here, still living.

Maybe that’s all it took: a few moments where I didn’t feel completely disconnected from everything.

I didn’t figure out how to fix everything. But I did start to understand that it was okay to be where I was. Not everything needed to be a crisis or a breakthrough. Some days were just meant to be ordinary. And maybe, in their own way, that was enough.