“I’m not saying I’m crazy.”

Miyako Fukanora stabbed her chopsticks into her rice like she was exorcising it.

"I’m just saying my dreams are starting to bully me."

Across from her, sitting perfectly straight and unbothered, was Sumire Kaneshiro — Miyako’s best friend since middle school. If Miyako was fire, Sumire was still water. Dark hair in a clean braid. Uniform perfect. Shoes always tied. Eyeliner? Flawless. Always.

And now, she stared at Miyako like she was trying to figure out whether to laugh or file a police report.

“…What kind of dreams are we talking?”

Miyako looked around the cafeteria. Noise. Chaos. Someone was yelling about pudding across three tables.

She leaned in.

"Okay, so like— I had this dream two nights ago, right? I’m in this city, but not Tokyo, not here, and it’s all cracked up and dirty and it smells like smoke. And there’s these guys— like, full-on gang guys. Chains, pipes, the whole ‘beat your ass in an alley’ vibe. And I’m one of them."

Sumire: "Mhm."
She picked up her miso soup and sipped it like Miyako wasn’t describing the opening scene of a crime movie.

"But here’s the freaky part."
Miyako’s voice dropped.
"I stood up. I fucking moved in the dream. And it felt real. Like I was there. Not just floating around. I could feel the ground."

Sumire blinked.
“…And that’s weird for you?”

Miyako almost choked on a rice ball.
"YES, Sumire. What do you mean, ‘that’s weird for me’? Are your dreams in 4D with immersive haptic feedback?"

"No." Sumire shrugged. “But I’ve had dreams where I could fly. You don’t see me trying to sue gravity.”

"No, this is different!"
Miyako leaned forward, hands waving in the air.
"It’s like… the dream's deciding things. Like I’m inside it, but I’m not the one making anything happen. Like it’s its own person, and I’m just... stuck."

"So... the dream’s controlling you."

"Exactly!"
Miyako pointed at her.
"Like I’m its meat puppet. It’s possessing me, not the other way around."

Sumire chewed slowly.
"You think you’re being dream-possessed by a gangster."

"Don’t say it like that, it sounds dumb when you say it like that."

"It is dumb."
Beat.
"But okay. Go on."

Miyako sighed, slumped forward on her arms.

"I dunno, I just… it’s been two nights now. First I’m walking with them, now I’m in their garage, sitting through a gang meeting like I know what’s going on, and the second I try to do something small — just stand up — the whole room stops and stares at me."

Sumire tapped a finger against her juice carton.
"And they know you. Like, they treat you like one of them."

"Yeah. I’m someone named Kaito. They talk to me like I’m him."

"Weird name for a dream."

"Exactly!"
Miyako sat up.
"It’s too detailed. The way they move, talk, even the stains on the floor — it’s like I’m living someone else’s memories, but I know they’re not mine."

Sumire just watched her.
Cool. Quiet.

Then:
"You think you’re gonna die in the dream?"

"What the fuck?"

"It’s just usually the next stage of dream obsession. You go: 'Wow this is crazy,’ then 'Oh no, I’m being hunted,’ and then 'Help, the toaster’s trying to kill me.’"

Miyako squinted.
"You have no soul."

Sumire shrugged.
"I think your dreams are just aggressive."

"They’re not aggressive, they’re... directive. Like they’re dragging me somewhere. Telling me to look. Like I’m being pulled toward something I haven’t figured out yet."

Sumire paused, genuinely thoughtful this time.

"So what are you gonna do?"

Miyako picked up her chopsticks again.
Stabbed her rice some more.

"Nothing. I’m just gonna let it ride."

"Smart."

"I mean, dreams end eventually, right?"

Sumire didn’t answer that one. She just nodded once and opened her yogurt.