The Sleeper’s Edge

I knew I was dreaming the moment the mirror blinked. At first, it was subtle—just a shimmer in the glass, like heat rising from concrete. Then, slowly, my reflection raised its hand when I didn’t. It smiled when my mouth stayed still. The blink came next. Lazy, slow, deliberate. I should have woken up.

Instead, I stepped closer. The air shimmered like something electric. My breath misted the mirror, but the smear didn’t match the shape of the reflection’s. It didn’t even fog in the same place. That was when it spoke. “You’re late,” my reflection said. Its voice was mine, but steadier, firmer. “For what?” I asked. The mirror cracked. A long, thin split that ran diagonally through the glass, slicing right across its throat.

I woke up gasping, fingers clutched in my sheets like I was about to fall. My room was silent except for the ticking clock beside me. 3:44 AM. The air was still and cold, and the scent of lemon detergent lingered faintly—something I always noticed when I was anxious. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, only to wince as a sharp sting flared across my right palm. A small, fresh cut. Not deep, but raw. I hadn’t touched anything sharp. Not last night. Not in days.

A dream, I told myself. Just a dream.

But when I turned to my desk, I saw my small standing mirror. A single, jagged crack ran through its center.

It got worse over the week.

In my dreams, I began walking through places that couldn’t exist. Cities made of glass that hummed when you whispered. Forests with trees shaped like people, their limbs moving in slow dances. Sometimes, I’d hear voices long before I saw anyone—voices that felt like wind through bone. But what haunted me wasn’t the strangeness. It was how clear everything was. How real.

I remembered the conversations. Word for word. I’d write them down after waking. One night, I spoke to a man in a gray coat with eyes that held stars in them—not metaphorically. Tiny galaxies spun in his irises.

“You’re not dreaming, Eliah,” he said. “You’re in-between.”

I laughed. Even in the dream, I couldn’t help it.

But then I saw him.

In real life. The café on Franklin Street. He was sitting two tables across, stirring a coffee he never drank. His eyes looked different here—gray, tired, ordinary. But when he looked up and nodded at me, my blood ran cold. It wasn’t just recognition. It was expectation.

I left my drink untouched and walked out. I didn’t look back, even though I heard his chair scrape against the floor.

After that, I started slipping. I’d wake up and find my phone alarm already off, even though I hadn’t touched it. My feet ached like I’d run miles in my sleep. Once, I found a ticket in my bag—one I never bought—to a place called “Nairiv.” It was printed on thick, dark blue paper and glowed faintly in the light. Another time, I found a sketch tucked inside my notebook. A rough drawing of my face, with the words she’s still here scribbled underneath.

I stopped telling people. They already thought I was weird. I didn’t need them thinking I was unraveling.

Maybe I was.

But the final straw wasn’t the mirror or the man or even the dreams.

It was her.

I had just come back from a lecture, dead on my feet, my brain buzzing from lack of sleep. I tossed my keys on the kitchen table and dragged myself to my room. And there she was. Sitting on my bed.

Me.

Same face. Same hoodie. Same tired eyes. But she wasn’t slouched. She looked composed. Alert. Whole.

“You’re still sleeping,” she said gently. “But it’s okay. I’m watching things for now.”

I froze. Every nerve in my body screamed. I wanted to run. To scream. But she just held up her hand like she was calming a child.

“I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here because you couldn’t decide.”

“Decide what?” My voice barely came out.

“Which world you wanted to live in.”

The man from the café found me again. This time in the library. He

didn’t sneak in. He didn’t hide. He walked right past the security desk and sat across from me like he belonged there. He pushed a folded piece of paper into my hands.

“I told you,” he said. “In-between.”

I opened it. A map, hand-drawn in charcoal. It showed a cluster of alleys I didn’t recognize, with a single spot circled in red ink.

“You have a choice, Eliah. Most don’t get one. But you’re... different.”

“Different how?” I asked.

He stared at me the way someone might stare at a flickering lightbulb, unsure if it’s about to go out.

“You remember,” he said. “That’s rare.”

“Remember what?”

“Both sides.”

I went. Of course I did.

The street on the map didn’t show up on Google Maps. But I followed it. Step by step. Turn by turn. Alley by alley. And then—it was there. A narrow path between two buildings that shouldn’t have had space between them. At the end, a door. No building. Just a freestanding door with a knocker shaped like a crescent moon.

I reached out. Knocked once.

Then I opened it.

The world twisted. For a moment, I couldn’t tell up from down. My ears rang. My mouth filled with the taste of mint and smoke. My lungs felt like they were breathing stars.

Then—Nairiv.

The dream world. The one I thought I imagined.

Except it wasn’t a dream. It was... more. The sky was a saturated blue with two suns orbiting each other. Stones floated mid-air, humming as if alive. The people there looked at me—not with suspicion, but with recognition. Some faces I remembered from dreams. Others felt familiar, like memories I hadn’t made yet.

And suddenly, I felt like I belonged.

Like my chest had finally stopped aching.

He found me again, the man in the gray coat.

“You’re here now,” he said.

“Am I dreaming?” I asked.

He tilted his head. “Does it matter?”

I looked around. Everything felt realer than reality. The warmth on my skin. The wind in my hair. The weight of my heartbeat.

“I don’t know,” I said.

He nodded, as if that was enough.

“You can stay, Eliah. But you can’t go back. Not without consequence.”

“What kind of consequence?”

“You’ll start slipping. Forgetting which version of you is true. The mirror will never be whole again.”

His eyes, though gray now, looked sad.

“Eventually, both versions of you will blur—and one will disappear.”

I thought of the reflection. Of the girl who’d been on my bed.

I thought of how every day, I carried loneliness like a backpack of bricks.

And I thought of how, here, I wasn’t invisible. I wasn’t lost.

I was seen.

“What if I want to stay anyway?” I asked.

His smile was kind, almost proud.

“Then sleep.”

Sometimes I wake up in my old apartment. It’s always raining there. The skies are always gray. I move like a ghost. I make coffee I don’t drink. I sit through lectures I don’t remember. My body goes through the motions, but it’s not really me.

I see her in the mirror now.

She waves.

She looks happy.

And when I close my eyes, I’m back—back in Nairiv, dancing beneath twin suns, walking through fields of color, speaking with dream-figures who’ve become family. Everything feels honest here. Even the strangeness. Even the sadness.

I think I chose this.

Or maybe it chose me.

But every time I blink, I still ask myself the same question:

Is this the dream?

Or is this the edge I’ve finally fallen off?