"I stood up," she whispered to herself.

No one heard.

She looked around. Every detail burned into her memory. Every wall. Every guy’s face. Every flicker of smoke. It was too real to forget now.

She clenched a fist.

She wanted to test something else.

She wanted to—

“MIYAKO! WAKE UP!”

SLAM.

Her eyes snapped open just in time to see her little sister’s arm fly back for a second pillow attack.

"The fuck?!" Miyako shouted, grabbing the nearest object — a hoodie — and chucking it.

"Dad said to wake you up!” her sister grinned like a demon. “You’re late, idiot!”

"I was in the middle of something!” Miyako growled, face buried in the sheets. “Like, really fucking in it.”

"Yeah, well, now you’re in high school, not fantasy land. Get up or he’s leaving without you."

The door slammed again. Her sister vanished down the hall like nothing had happened.

Miyako just lay there for a moment. Breathing. Drenched in sweat. Eyes blinking hard.

Everything was quiet now. Real.

She sat up, slowly, gripping her blanket tight in both fists.

Her room. Her air. Her real arms.

She looked at her legs. Her hands. Touched her own face.

No bandages. No smoke. No boots.

"I stood up..."

She whispered it like it might mean something.

But then she looked at the time.

7:46 a.m.

“FUCK,” she yelled, leaping out of bed in a cyclone of limbs, hoodie, and uniform panic.

She brushed her teeth while putting on socks, zipped her skirt half-crooked, and grabbed a half-eaten granola bar from two days ago.

All the while, her brain was screaming a second conversation:

I stood up.
They saw me.
I talked.
I moved.
I fucking stood up.

But school didn’t care. Neither did her stomach.

So she threw her bag over one shoulder, cursed the train schedule, and sprinted out the door.

Dreams didn’t wait.

But neither did Monday morning.