When the Lights Flicker

WHEN THE LIGHTS FLICKER

The coffee shop smells like burnt caramel and something else. Something sharp. Antiseptic.

You blink.

No. Coffee. Only coffee.

The woman behind the counter wipes down the espresso machine. Same purple sweater. Same tired eyes. You've seen her before. Yesterday? Last week? The timeline blurs.

"Black coffee," you say.

She pours without asking your name. She already knows.

Outside the window, a boy chases a paper plane down the sidewalk. White paper wings catch the wind. He laughs. The sound echoes wrong. Too long. Too hollow.

You pull out your notebook. The pages fall open to the last entry. Your handwriting. Your words.

"Cycle 12. Dream logic holds. Streets unchanged. Woman still here. Boy still running."

You don't remember writing this.

The coffee burns your tongue. You taste copper underneath the bitterness. Your reflection in the window blinks. You didn't blink.

The woman leans over the counter. "You keep coming back."

"I like the coffee."

"No." Her voice drops. "You keep coming back. Every day. Same time. Same order. Same seat."

Your pulse quickens. "I've never been here before."

She points at your notebook. "Then why do you have twelve entries about this place?"

The lights flicker. Once. Twice. The hum of electricity sounds like a heartbeat monitor. Steady. Mechanical. Wrong.

The boy runs past the window again. Same paper plane. Same laugh. The plane arcs through the air and lands on your table.

You unfold it.

The paper is blank.

"What do you want from me?" you ask the woman.

She looks sad. "I want you to wake up."

The lights go out.

You wake up in your bed. Morning light cuts through the blinds. Your alarm reads 7:03. Same as yesterday.

Your reflection in the bathroom mirror looks tired. You lean closer. Your eyes are bloodshot. Red vessels spider across white.

You blink.

Your reflection blinks a second later.

You step back. Breathe. Count to ten. When you look again, everything syncs up.

Coffee. You need coffee.

On your desk, something white catches your eye. A paper plane. Folded sharp. Clean edges.

You pick it up. Your hands shake.

You unfold it.

Written in your handwriting: "Cycle 13."

CYCLE 47

You stop going to work. You stop answering calls. Sleep becomes the only thing that matters.

Each time you close your eyes, you return to the coffee shop. The woman. The boy. The plane.

But now you experiment.

You order tea instead of coffee. She pours coffee anyway.

You sit at a different table. You end up in your usual seat.

You ask her name. She opens her mouth. No sound comes out. The lights flicker.

The boy runs past. You chase him this time. Down the sidewalk. Around the corner. Into an alley that wasn't there before.

He stops. Turns. His face blurs like static on a screen.

"Why are you following me?" His voice sounds like yours. Younger. Smaller.

"Who are you?"

He points at your chest. "You already know."

You look down. Your shirt is wet. Red spreads across the fabric. No pain. Just red.

The boy hands you the paper plane. "You have to stop dying."

The world tilts. Buildings stretch into impossible angles. The sky fractures like broken glass.

You wake up gasping.

Your sheets are soaked with sweat. Your heart hammers against your ribs. You check your shirt. No blood. No wound.

But you hear it now. Faint. Underneath everything.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

A rhythm that doesn't belong in your bedroom.

CYCLE 89

The coffee shop is different now. The walls breathe. In and out. Slow. Mechanical.

The woman sits across from you. No counter between you anymore.

"You're not supposed to be here this long," she says.

"Where else would I go?"

"Back. You need to go back."

"Back where?"

She reaches across the table. Her hand passes through yours. Translucent. Fading.

"I'm not real. None of this is real. You're dying."

The words hit like ice water. "What?"

"Every time you sleep here, you die a little more. Every reset. Every cycle. You're losing yourself."

The beeping grows louder. Faster. The walls pulse in time with the sound.

"How do I stop it?"

"You don't stop it. You let go."

The boy appears beside your table. Older now. Ten? Twelve? He holds out the paper plane.

You take it. This time, words cover every surface. Your handwriting. Hundreds of entries. Thousands.

"Cycle 1. Cycle 2. Cycle 3..."

They blur together. The numbers climb. 100. 500. 1000.

"How long have I been here?"

The woman stands. Her face shifts. Features sharpen. You recognize her now. The shape of her eyes. The curve of her jaw.

"Sarah?"

Your wife. Your wife who you haven't seen in months. Years? Time fractures in your head.

"I'm sitting next to you," she says. "I've been sitting next to you this whole time. Holding your hand. Talking to you. Begging you to come back."

The coffee shop dissolves. Hospital equipment emerges from the walls. Monitors. Tubes. White sheets.

"The accident," you whisper.

"You hit a truck. Head-on. They said you wouldn't make it through the first night."

"How long?"

"Six months."

The number crushes you. Six months trapped in this loop. Six months dying and restarting.

"I can't leave. If I leave, I die."

She shakes her head. "If you stay, you're already dead."

The boy grabs your hand. You see his face clearly now. Your face. Seven years old. The day before your father died.

"You're scared," he says.

"Yes."

"Me too. But we have to jump anyway."

The world tears apart. Sirens. Voices. Bright lights. Pain floods through every nerve.

A doctor shouts. "We're losing him!"

Sarah screams your name.

The boy squeezes your hand. "Wake up."

White light.

Then nothing.

You open your eyes.

Fluorescent lights. Ceiling tiles. The smell of disinfectant.

Sarah's face hovers above yours. Real. Solid. Crying.

"Oh God. Oh God, you're awake."

Doctors rush in. Questions. Tests. Lights in your eyes.

"You were coding," a doctor says. "Your heart stopped for six minutes. We thought we'd lost you."

Six minutes. Not six months.

Six minutes of dreaming stretched into infinity.

THREE MONTHS LATER

Physical therapy. Relearning how to walk. How to hold a fork. How to speak without slurring.

The dreams stop. Mostly.

Sometimes you see the coffee shop. Brief flashes. The woman behind the counter. The boy running.

But they fade when you blink.

Sarah drives you home from your final therapy session. You're cleared. Recovered. Lucky to be alive.

"Coffee?" she asks as you pull into the driveway.

"Sure."

She parks. Goes inside. You sit in the car for a moment. Breathing. Grateful.

Something white on the dashboard catches your eye.

A paper plane.

Your hands shake as you pick it up. The folds are perfect. Sharp. Deliberate.

You unfold it.

Written in handwriting that isn't yours:

"Cycle 1."

Below it, in different handwriting. Smaller. Messier:

"Cycle 1."

Then another. And another. Different hands. Different people.

The page is covered with them. Hundreds of entries. All saying the same thing.

"Cycle 1."

You flip the paper over.

One sentence. Sarah's handwriting.

"We're all still dreaming."

You look up at your house. Sarah stands in the window. Watching you. Not moving.

The lights flicker.

Once.

Twice.

The boy walks past your car. Same paper plane in his hand. Same laugh.

You check the rearview mirror.

Your reflection blinks.

You didn't blink.

END

-S.B.