The Letters In His Desk. Content Warning.
Ethan Calloway woke as if he had been pulled violently upward from deep water, his body surfacing before his mind could follow, lungs straining against a pressure that did not exist outside of him yet felt crushingly real. The darkness in his bedroom seemed thicker than usual, less like the natural absence of light and more like something intentional that had gathered in the corners and along the ceiling, watching him struggle. For several long seconds he did not move, did not even blink, because movement would mean confirming that he was awake and he was not entirely sure that waking was safer than remaining where he had just been. His sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat, and the air in the room felt wrong in a way he could not articulate, as if it had been breathed too many times and had nothing left to give him. When he tried to inhale deeply, the breath caught halfway down, splintering into sharp, shallow pulls that made his chest tighten painfully. The red glow of the clock on his nightstand slowly sharpened into focus through the blur at the edges of his vision. 3:17 a.m. The numbers felt accusatory, like witnesses who had seen this happen before and would see it happen again.
