“Alright... dirty room? Check. Unwashed underwear on the bed? Fucking check.”

Miyako muttered to herself as she stepped over an open bag of chips that looked like it’d been sitting for a solid week.

She didn’t know what she was expecting when she walked out of Kaito’s room — a shift in lighting? The dream to reset? A creepy hallway that told her it was time to wake up?

Nope. Just more house.

Quiet. Dim. Lived-in. Messy.

She walked down the narrow hallway to what looked like a kitchen. Kind of. If you squinted and ignored the overflowing trash bin and pile of unwashed dishes in the sink.

On the counter: a stack of cup noodles. Beef flavor. Cheap. Reliable. Sad.

She looked around once, then shrugged.

“Alright, let’s test some shit.”

She grabbed one and filled the kettle. Waited. The sound of it boiling felt too normal. Like it wasn’t coded into a dream, but actually happening.

When the water was done, she poured it in. Waited again.

She sniffed it.

"Okay... smells legit."

She slurped the first bite.

And then froze.

"Holy... fuck."

She chewed. Swallowed.

“I can taste it.”

She took another bite.

“No, like I can actually taste it. Not dream-fake taste. Not pretend flavor. Like, real salt, real broth, real-ass cheap beef flavor."

She looked at the cup in disbelief. Then around the kitchen.

“This isn’t just visual. This isn’t just touch. This is everything. All five senses. I’m not watching Kaito’s life anymore… I’m fucking living it.”

Her hands started shaking slightly.

She set the cup down. Backed away slowly.

It was too much. Too real.

“I can’t keep pretending this is just a dream.”

She grabbed the edge of the counter.

“But if it’s not a dream… what the hell is it?''

“No. Nope. No fucking way.”

Miyako Fukanora took a step back from the counter, eyes locked on the empty cup of noodles like it had just threatened her life.

The taste was still in her mouth — salty, a little spicy, slightly plastic. The kind of flavor that shouldn’t exist in dreams. But it was there. Heavy. Real.

"Okay," she whispered, voice shaky. "Dreams don’t have taste. Dreams don’t let you boil water. Dreams don’t come with trash bins and expired soy sauce packets."

She looked down at Kaito’s hands — her hands, for now.

They weren’t fuzzy. They weren’t off.

They were sharp. Defined. Real.

“No way this is real.”
She said it like a spell. Like if she repeated it enough times, she’d wake up.

Her fingers twitched at her side.

She hesitated, then slowly reached for her arm — Kaito’s forearm — and pinched it. Hard.

"Ow."

She blinked.

Then did it again. Harder.

"Ow—shit!"

The sting bloomed across her skin, followed by a dull ache.

No delay. No dream fade.

"Okay... alright... what the actual fuck."

She paced the kitchen, heart thudding.

"So either this is the most vivid lucid dream I’ve ever had in my life—like, full sensory overload on expert mode—or…"

She stopped.
Stared at the fridge. The magnets. The grocery list with two things crossed out: “Milk” and “Painkillers.”

"...I’m inside some guy’s life."

The weight of it hit her slowly. Not like a slap — more like water pouring into her chest.

She looked down at herself.

Still him.

"This isn’t a dream anymore, is it?"