Between the Waking and the Dream

Between the Waking and the Dream

Mara hadn’t slept in three days.

At least, she didn’t think she had.

The lines between waking and dreaming had blurred until her mind became a broken clock—ticking, rewinding, skipping entire hours without permission. She would lie in bed, close her eyes, and open them to find herself standing somewhere else entirely. Sometimes in her kitchen. Sometimes on a train she didn’t remember boarding. Sometimes floating, bodiless, through corridors made of fog and light.

Her therapist, Dr. Henley, had once called it lucid instability.

“You’re self-aware in your dreams,” he said gently, “but your subconscious isn’t letting you wake cleanly. The key is to ground yourself when you wake. Look at something consistent. Count your fingers. Find what’s real.”

But the clocks lied now.

And her fingers multiplied when she counted them.

---

The first time she noticed the split, it had been small. She’d left her coffee on the counter before work, half full. The next morning, she found it again—still half full, still warm, steam curling into the air.

She thought it was funny. Told her friend Daniel about it.

“Maybe I’m living the same day twice,” she’d joked over the phone.

Daniel laughed. “You probably just forgot to drink it.”

But later that night, when she called him again—frightened, whispering that the lights in her apartment were breathing—he said, “Mara… you called me hours ago. You said you couldn’t wake up.”

That was the first time she realized something was wrong.

---

By the end of the week, she started keeping journals.

Every morning, she’d write the date, time, and three facts.

It’s Tuesday.

My name is Mara Winslow.

I live in the real world.

But the handwriting changed between entries. Sometimes her script slanted left, sometimes right. Sometimes she’d flip open the book and find entire paragraphs written in a voice she didn’t recognize.

You keep trying to wake up, one entry said. But you’re already dreaming of doing it.

---

The city outside began to distort. Streetlights flickered in patterns she swore spelled words. Strangers stared too long. The clouds didn’t move—they looped, repeating the same ripple of sunlight over and over.

She stopped answering the phone.

Stopped eating.

Stopped sleeping, though she wasn’t sure that was possible anymore.

Once, she found a note taped to her mirror:

If you’re reading this, it worked. Don’t fall asleep again.

She couldn’t remember writing it.

She wasn’t sure what worked.

---

Dr. Henley called her in for an emergency session.

His office walls were painted a comforting gray, the air still and warm. But the longer she sat, the more the walls seemed to breathe in and out.

“You’re doing well,” he said softly. “You’re beginning to accept both realities.”

“I don’t want both,” she said. “I just want the real one.”

He smiled. “Who says this isn’t it?”

The clock behind him melted, its hands drooping like wax. Mara stood up, backing away. “I need to wake up,” she said.

“You already did,” he whispered.

---

The next time she opened her eyes, she was in a hospital. White walls. Beeping monitors. Tubes in her arms.

A nurse entered, face half hidden behind a surgical mask. “You’re awake, Mara,” she said gently. “You’ve been in a coma for six years. Fell asleep at work. We didn’t think you’d make it.”

Mara wept. “It was all a dream?”

The nurse nodded. “You’re safe now.”

But when she blinked, the nurse was gone. The room was dark. The machines silent.

And from the corner of the room came her own voice:

“You keep waking up in the wrong place.”

---

She woke again—this time, back in her apartment. The same mug. Same counter. Same sun cutting across the window.

The TV was on. A morning anchor smiled brightly at the camera. “Good morning, everyone! Strange solar activity has been causing some reality distortion today. If your electronics seem off, don’t panic—it’s temporary.”

Then he paused. Looked straight at her.

“Mara,” he said. “Wake up.”

The screen went black.

---

Panicking, she ran to the bathroom, gripping the sink. Her reflection looked tired but real. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’m awake. I’m awake.”

The reflection smiled.

“I know,” it said—and grabbed her hand.

The world folded like paper.

Colors drained away.

She landed in a glass corridor, her reflection on every surface. Each wall reflected a version of herself—some crying, some laughing, some asleep.

In one reflection, she saw Daniel standing beside her body, whispering her name.

In another, she saw Dr. Henley watching through a monitor, taking notes.

In another, she saw herself—eyes open, motionless.

A dozen Maras stared back.

Only one of them blinked.

---

Time dissolved. She walked through mirror after mirror, each one a different world. In one, she was back in the hospital. In another, she was on a quiet beach. In another, she was a child again, staring at the sky and wondering how it could ever look so real.

Sometimes she heard whispers from the glass:

Don’t wake up. It’s worse out there.

You can choose which world you keep.

Maybe you were never meant to leave.

She started to forget which version had started it all.

Maybe all of them were dreaming each other.

---

Then one day—if days still existed—she saw him.

A man standing in the mirror across from her.

“Daniel?” she whispered.

He smiled faintly. “You found me.”

She took a step closer. “Where am I?”

“You’re still asleep. But you can come home if you want. Just reach out.”

He extended his hand.

Warmth radiated through the glass.

Her heart surged with hope.

But then another voice spoke behind her.

Her own.

“Don’t go. That’s not him.”

She turned. Another Mara stood there, identical down to the tear in her sleeve. “It’s another trick. If you go through, you’ll never wake up.”

Mara looked between them—the familiar kindness in Daniel’s eyes, the desperate warning in her twin’s face.

Both were real.

Both weren’t.

She closed her eyes.

---

When she opened them, the world was bright. She was back in the hospital bed. Daniel was beside her, holding her hand, crying.

“Welcome back,” he whispered.

Her throat felt dry. “I made it?”

He nodded. “You made it.”

The doctor smiled. “You’re safe now.”

Mara leaned back against the pillow, re

lief washing through her.

Outside the window, sunlight poured across the floor.

Then she noticed the clock on the wall.

Its hands were moving backward.