I was definitely in a classroom at school.

That was my last memory.

A familiar desk.
A familiar window.
A familiar blackboard.

My head kept dropping forward.

Even as I nodded off, everything I saw felt vaguely familiar—until, at some point, it didn’t.

The desk twisted.
The window tilted.
The blackboard bent this way and that.

The shadows stretched longer, and my sense of time blurred.

I felt myself sinking, like drifting into sleep.

Then it was as if I had fallen into something, like a shallow puddle.

I was sinking, yet at the same time something pressed down on me.

Even then, my head kept nodding.

I thought I was going deeper and deeper, but maybe that wasn’t it.

Something like a thin membrane seemed to surround me, and I felt as if I were resting on top of it.

Then the water around me gathered force and tore the membrane apart.

Like anything heavy falling downward, it felt inevitable that I would be swept away with it.

But instead, my body tightened under the pressure, as if I were being forced through a narrow rubber hose.

At the same time, what I had thought was water clung to my body, sticky, then slowly peeled away.

It was over.

And then I woke up.

The moment I opened my eyes, I smelled an unfamiliar air.