The silence in my room stretches between us, thick and suffocating. Ezekiel's hand is still outstretched, waiting, but I ignore it. My fingers curl around the fabric of my pants instead, pressing down just enough to ground myself. I don't know what his game is, but I'm not playing along.
A few seconds pass before he finally drops his hand, seemingly unbothered. His smile doesn't waver, but his dark eyes study me carefully, like he's peeling back layers I didn't even know I had. I hate that.
"So, Noah," he starts, leaning back slightly in his chair. His voice is soft but firm, controlled. "How are you feeling today?"
A dry chuckle escapes me before I can stop it. He can't be serious. How am I feeling? In this place? Where the walls breathe misery and every step forward leads right back to where I started?
"Oh, I feel fantastic, Doctor," I say, slouching against my chair. "In fact, I was just thinking about booking a vacation. Maybe somewhere warm. Know any good spots?"
His lips twitch, like he's holding back amusement. "Depends," he muses. "Are we talking tropical getaway or remote cabin in the woods?"
I raise an eyebrow. Huh. Not the usual response.
I was expecting the usual bland, rehearsed lines therapists here love to use. ´I understand that you're struggling, Noah´ or ´Why don't we explore these thoughts further?´ But instead, he's playing along.
"I was thinking more along the lines of a place without locked doors," I reply. "You know, a place where every shadow doesn't feel like it's watching me."
Ezekiel hums thoughtfully, tapping a pen against the leather surface of his notebook. "Sounds like freedom."
I scoff. "Big word for someone on the other side of the locked door."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't even look offended. Instead, he flips a page in his notebook, scanning something before speaking again. "Tell me about your dreams."
My stomach clenches. The air suddenly feels different—heavier, like the walls are leaning in.
I shake my head. "What?"
"Your dreams," he repeats, casually crossing one leg over the other. "I read through your file. You've mentioned them before, haven't you?"
A bitter taste fills my mouth. My old therapist, Doctor Willensburg, used to dismiss them. Called them symptoms of deep-rooted paranoia or distorted memory recollection. He liked using big words to make it sound like he understood me. But he never did.
Nobody here does.
"Why?" I ask, voice sharp. "So you can write it down in your little notebook and tell me they're not real?"
Ezekiel tilts his head slightly. "Are they real?"
That throws me off. My fingers tighten against my pants, but I force myself to keep my expression neutral. "I don't know," I mutter.
"They feel real."
He nods. Not dismissively. Not like he's humoring me. Just… like he's listening. Really listening.
I don't trust it.
Still, the words slip out before I can stop them.
"They always start the same," I murmur, staring at a scratch on the desk between us. "It's like… I'm locked inside someone's body. I can see, hear, and feel everything."
Ezekiel doesn't interrupt, so I keep going.
"But when I try to move, I can't. My body feels… heavy." I swallow, my throat dry.
The word lingers in the air, sending a faint shiver down my spine. Even just talking about it makes my chest tighten.
"When my mouth opens, they don't speak in a language I understand," I continue, my voice lower now. "But I can still, somehow, understand everything."
Ezekiel leans forward slightly, his expression unreadable. "These dreams… do they ever feel familiar? Like déjà vu?"
My heart skips a beat.
No one's ever asked that before. Not Willensburg. Not the nurses. Nobody. They always brush past the details, chalking it up to hallucinations or anxiety.
I stare at him. "Yeah."
I hesitated. I don't want to say it. If I say it, it feels real.
But Ezekiel doesn't dismiss me, nodding like he understands. Like he believes me.
I don't know why, but that unsettles me more than anything else.
"What do you think it means?" I ask, testing him.
Ezekiel exhales, tapping his pen against his notebook again. "I think," he says slowly, "that there's more to your dreams than just dreams."
I freeze.
That's not the answer I was expecting. "What?" I whisper.
He looks at me, really looks at me, like he's trying to reach past every wall I've built.
"What if the visions are real, Noah?"
Something cold rushes through my veins. I laugh, but it's hollow. "That's insane."
"Is it?" Ezekiel tilts his head. "Tell me, has anything from your dreams ever happened in real life?"
My breath catches.
I don't want to answer. Because the truth is, of course, yes.
I dreamed of fire, and when I woke up, my room was burning.
Ezekiel's expression tells me he already knows what I'm thinking. "You're not alone in this, Noah."
I shake my head. "You don't know anything about me."
His smile is faint. "Don't I?"
I hate how calm he looks. How sure he sounds. It makes me feel unsteady, like I'm standing on the edge of something I can't see.
This is a terrible gamble. But when were my ideas not terrible?
"When I was eleven, I burned my room down after a dream. I dreamt about being in a burning house, a boy my age calling for help. And when I woke up, my windowsill had already been scorched." My voice is careful.
I'm curious. If my mother didn't believe me, how much would a stranger?
But when I lift my gaze to meet his eyes, expecting disbelief and mockery, I see something else instead. Interest.
Not the cold interest Willensburg had, like I was a test subject
But genuine curiosity.
"So you awakened your ability through your vision?" His voice is quiet, almost thoughtful. "Are you still able to use it?"
I close my eyes. I can't. Not directly. I can feel it, like embers buried deep inside me. But Willensburg did something. Suppressed it.
I have no idea how to reach it anymore. No idea how to control it.
"I can't remember."