Blurred Edges

Did you ever have a dream so vivid that it felt real? What if the dream is the reality, and the one you are living now is actually the dream? Or maybe both are real. Maybe dreams are just windows into another version of yourself.

Theo opened his eyes to the sound of a clock ticking.

That was the first clue. He didn’t own a clock.

The second clue was the blood on his hands.

His breath caught as he sat up. The room was unfamiliar—dim, sterile, carrying the sharp scent of antiseptic. The walls were bare, the bed stiff beneath him. Panic crawled up his spine as he stared at the red stains on his fingers.

This had happened before.

Theo had always struggled with his dreams. They weren’t just vivid; they were invasive. They bled into his waking life, twisting time, warping memory. He’d wake up mid-conversation with people who weren’t there. He’d recall events that had never happened. He’d spend days convinced he was living in a past that no longer existed.

But this—the blood—this was new.

A door creaked open.

A woman stepped inside, her face tense with concern. “Theo,” she said. “You’re awake.”

He squinted at her. Familiar. Ava. His sister.

Or at least, she had been.

The last time he saw her, she had died in a car crash. He had been at the funeral. He had spoken at it.

Theo’s stomach turned. “No,” he whispered.

Ava’s face flickered—pity? Sadness? “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

He gripped the sheets. “You’re dead.”

Ava sat beside him, expression unreadable. “No, Theo. I’m not.”

His breath grew shallow. His mind reeled. If she was alive, then that meant…

He clawed at his memories, at the threads of reality, desperate to find the truth. He remembered Ava’s funeral. He also remembered having lunch with her last week. He remembered standing in their childhood home, even though it had burned down when he was fifteen. He remembered a thousand versions of his life, each contradicting the other, each feeling equally real.

And then, like a rush of cold air slicing through his mind, another memory came.

The screaming. The headlights.

His hands gripping the wheel.

Ava’s voice, raw with fear, yelling at him to slow down.

The shattering glass cutting through her blue blouse.

The red pooling beneath her, soaking into his hands, into his skin.

His fault.

Theo gritted his teeth. “I need to wake up.”

Ava reached out, gripping his hand. “You are awake.”

“No,” he said again, voice rising.

She didn’t let go. “Theo. Listen to me. You didn’t hurt me.”

He stiffened. “What?”

Her gaze darted to his hands. No blood. “You’re safe,” she said carefully. “You didn’t do anything.”

But that wasn’t what she had said the last time he saw her. Or had that been a dream?

“No,” he muttered. “I remember. The car. You—”

She shook her head, and suddenly, the room wavered. The blood on his hands faded like ink dissolving in water. The clock melted into the wall.

“You remember what you want to remember,” Ava said softly, as if she’d said it before. “But it’s not the truth.”

His pulse pounded in his ears. The clock ticked on, steady, grounding, reminding him that time was moving forward. That this moment was happening.

That this was real.

Or was it?

Theo shut his eyes and counted to ten.

When he opened them, the room was gone.

He was standing in his apartment. No blood. No Ava. Just the sound of his own breath in the dark.

The contradictory memories spun in his mind. Ava’s funeral was so vivid—the picture on display, the one he had taken. She had worn the blue blouse for the first time that day. It had been a gift from their mother.

But then… he also remembered lunch with her last week.

She had worn the same blouse.

She had smiled, licking frosting off her fork after ordering her favorite dessert.

Was the funeral a dream?

Or was the lunch a dream?

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A message from Ava.

Call me when you wake up.

Theo stared at the screen, his body frozen. He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or not.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t sure if it mattered anymore.

Theo exhaled, his fingers hovering over the screen. His heart thudded like a distant echo, a metronome keeping time in a life that might not even be real. His thumb twitched, hesitating before pressing the call button.

The line rang once. Twice.

Then, a voice—warm, familiar.

“Theo?”

His breath hitched. “Ava?”

A pause. “Yeah. Are you okay?”

His eyes flickered around his apartment, searching for cracks in reality. The air smelled right—faint coffee and stale takeout. His reflection stared back at him from the dark window, solid, present.

But wasn’t that what always happened?

It always felt real.

Until it didn’t.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. His voice was small, raw. “I keep waking up.”

Ava was silent for a moment. Then, softly—

“I know.”

His grip tightened on the phone. Something about the way she said it—like she had been waiting for this call—made his stomach turn.

Theo swallowed hard. “Then tell me… am I awake now?”

A beat of silence.

Then: “You tell me.”

A chill ran through him. The room suddenly felt too still, the air too thick.

His throat went dry. "Ava...?"

Static crackled on the line. The faintest sound of breathing. Then—

Tick.

His body stiffened.

The sound came again, rhythmic, steady. A clock. Somewhere in the room.

He turned, searching for it. But there was no clock. There had never been a clock.

His fingers trembled as he brought the phone back to his ear. The line was still open, but Ava wasn’t speaking anymore. Just the ticking, louder now, echoing in his head, drowning out everything else.

Theo's grip on the phone tightened. His pulse raced. His own breath felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else. He forced himself to ask, his voice barely above a whisper—

“Ava… where are you?”

A pause.

Then, in a voice just above a whisper—so quiet he almost missed it—Ava answered.

“I don’t know.”

The call disconnected.

Theo stared at the screen. No call log. No message.

Just the reflection of a man who wasn’t sure if he was awake—or if he had ever been.

And somewhere, the clock ticked.