Chapter 11 — Reality Feels Boring
1488 Words
(Zoe’s Diary)
By morning, the world had gone quiet again.
Not in the peaceful way — more like the volume had been turned down on everything. The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving behind a washed-out sky and sidewalks slick with puddles. The air smelled clean, but too clean — sterile, empty, like something important had been rinsed away.
I walked to class with my coffee in hand, watching the clouds drift above the rooftops. My head was still heavy from sleep. My dreams had been silent for the first time in weeks — no beach, no waves, no gray-blue eyes calling me back. You’d think that would bring relief, but it didn’t.
Instead, everything just felt... dull.
The kind of dull that seeps into your skin.
I tried focusing on the world — the chatter of students walking beside me, the squeak of sneakers on wet pavement, the smell of espresso spilling out of the campus café — but none of it landed. It all felt like a play I’d seen too many times before.
Inside the lecture hall, fluorescent lights buzzed faintly. I took a seat near the window, half-listening as Professor Graham droned on about cognitive structures and associative memory. His voice was the exact tone of the hum in my chest — low, steady, meaningless.
I doodled in the margins of my notes again — waves, stars, fragments of words I didn’t remember writing.
A guy sat two rows ahead of me. Tall, brown hair, quiet. The kind of person you’d only notice if you were looking for something to notice. He turned slightly at one point, and for half a second, the angle of his jaw reminded me of him.
My stomach tightened before my mind caught up.
Elias.
Even just thinking his name sent a pulse through me — a small, traitorous spark that felt both electric and empty at once.
The guy turned back, and reality reclaimed him. He wasn’t Adrian. Of course he wasn’t. His eyes were the wrong color. His shoulders too tense. His presence — hollow.
That was the problem. Everyone felt hollow now.
Every laugh, every conversation, every flicker of attention — none of it touched me the way it used to.
It was like I’d been tuned to a different frequency, and the world hadn’t caught up.
I used to love days like this — cool air, faint drizzle, the smell of rain-soaked books and wet earth. Now, I couldn’t stop wishing for silver light and waves instead. For that unreal blue that felt more like home than this place ever did.
When class ended, I stayed behind for a minute, pretending to pack slowly just to avoid the noise of everyone leaving.
“Zoe.”
I jumped.
It was Ava, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, hair damp from the rain. She grinned. “You were totally gone for the last thirty minutes.”
“I was taking notes.”
“Yeah, on a different planet.” She walked over and slung her bag across the desk beside mine. “You okay? You look like you’re trying to solve the meaning of life or something.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Then start smaller,” she said, smirking. “Like why our professor insists on using the same slides from 2009.”
I laughed, or tried to. The sound came out thinner than I expected.
Ava watched me for a beat too long, her teasing fading into concern. “You didn’t dream again, did you?”
“Not last night.”
“Good.” She reached for her phone. “Because you’ve been... I don’t know. Different lately. Distracted.”
I wanted to tell her that different didn’t even begin to cover it. That everything I touched felt off — muted, like sound traveling through water. But I just shrugged. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
I nodded, because I didn’t know how to explain that I missed someone who might not even exist.
---
We stopped by the café between classes. It was crowded — warm bodies, loud music, the scent of coffee thick enough to taste. I ordered my usual and watched the barista’s hands move, fast and practiced. The sound of the milk steamer hissed through the air, sharp and familiar.
For a second, my chest tightened. The noise was too close to the sound of waves again.
Ava noticed. “You’re zoning out again.”
“Just tired,” I said, forcing a smile.
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve said that every day this week. Caffeine isn’t sleep, you know.”
“I know.”
She tilted her head, studying me. “You ever think maybe you just need, like... something real? A crush, maybe? A date?”
I laughed into my cup. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. You’ve been living in dreamland for too long. Time to remember what human touch feels like.”
Her bluntness made me choke on my sip. “Ava!”
She smirked. “What? You said you’re fine. Fine people don’t stare into nothing like they’re expecting a ghost to wink back.”
I looked away, tracing the rim of my cup. The thing was — she wasn’t wrong.
I kept looking.
Everywhere I went, my eyes searched faces automatically, like I was waiting for him to step out from a crowd. I’d catch a glimpse of dark hair, a certain stride, and my heart would jump — then fall, each time.
The worst part? I didn’t want to stop looking.
---
That afternoon, I sat on the campus lawn, pretending to read. The air was warm again, sun breaking through the clouds in brief, uncertain flashes. Students sprawled across the grass, laughing, flirting, living like people who weren’t haunted by impossible dreams.
I kept thinking how alive they looked.
And how distant that life felt to me now.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want it. I just couldn’t reach it. The air between me and everything else felt thick, elastic. Like I was watching the world through glass.
A gust of wind turned the pages of my book, and a leaf drifted onto the cover. I brushed it off, staring at the veins running through it — delicate, perfect, temporary.
I wondered if that was what Adrian felt like — something beautiful meant to vanish.
Ava found me a few minutes later, two smoothies in hand. “You didn’t move for half an hour,” she said. “I timed it.”
“Multitasking,” I muttered.
She flopped down beside me. “You’re hopeless.”
“Maybe.”
We sat in silence for a while, watching clouds roll across the sky. A group of guys played frisbee near the fountain, laughter echoing over the grass. One of them waved at Ava — tall, athletic, familiar.
“That’s Ben,” she whispered. “The one from my psych class.”
“He’s cute,” I said automatically.
She grinned. “You should say that to him.”
“I meant for you.”
She groaned. “You’re impossible.” Then, more softly: “Zoe... you really haven’t looked at anyone since—since all this started, huh?”
I hesitated. “It’s not that I don’t look. It’s that none of them feel real.”
Ava frowned. “You say that like he does.”
The words caught in my throat. I didn’t answer.
Because she was right.
Adrian — whoever, whatever he was — felt more real than anyone sitting in front of me right now.
His memory had weight, warmth, gravity. The world, by comparison, felt paper-thin.
And that terrified me.
---
By evening, the sky had gone lavender. Campus lights flickered on, one by one, and the day settled into its quiet hum again. I walked home alone, notebook under my arm, hair sticking to my cheek where the breeze caught it.
Each step echoed faintly against the pavement.
I tried to imagine what it would feel like to stop thinking of him. To stop hearing that voice — low, calm, impossibly sure.
You always find me.
The words rose in my mind unbidden, a whisper threaded through memory.
I stopped walking.
For a second, I almost turned around, half-expecting to see him standing there under the streetlamp.
Of course, there was no one. Just the sound of wind and the hum of the city beyond.
Reality, steady and ordinary.
And me — caught between wanting it and wishing it away.
---
That night, before I went to bed, I wrote one line in my diary:
> Everything feels dull, like the world’s been drained of color.
I think I left part of myself somewhere I can’t return to.
Then I closed the notebook, turned off the lamp, and waited for sleep.
But sleep didn’t come.
Only the quiet did.
And that, somehow, was worse.
- Writer
