Drifting Between Worlds

Ethan Carter woke up gasping for air.

His eyes shot open, his body jerking upright as if he had just been yanked from the depths of a nightmare. Cold sweat clung to his skin. He blinked rapidly, trying to ground himself, but the room around him was foreign.

Again.

The ceiling above him was not the smooth white of the Barcelona hotel. This one was lower, painted a dull beige, with a ceiling fan creaking overhead. The air smelled different—humid, musty, with a faint trace of something metallic.

He turned his head toward the window. A narrow street below bustled with people carrying baskets, their voices a blend of different accents. A sign hanging outside the building read:

Brixton, London.

Ethan's stomach twisted.

Yesterday—Barcelona. Today—London.

His hands clenched the bedsheets, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He needed to stay calm. Panicking wouldn’t help him. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his movements stiff, unfamiliar, as if his body wasn’t fully his own.

Is this going to keep happening?

He forced himself to stand, bracing against the nightstand. His legs wobbled slightly, but he steadied himself. The small hotel room was dim, a weak morning light filtering through the sheer curtains. His clothes—dark jeans, a navy sweater—were neatly folded on the chair beside the bed. Not the ones he had worn yesterday.

His heart pounded as he grabbed his phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up.

March 15th, 7:08 AM.

The date was right. The time felt right.

But there was no Wi-Fi signal. No data. No notifications.

He opened his notes app and scrolled to the last entry.

March 14th. Woke up in Barcelona. No idea how.

His hands shook as he typed:

March 15th. Woke up in London. Still no idea how.

He swallowed hard, staring at the words on the screen. This wasn’t a coincidence. It wasn’t a prank. It wasn’t some weird dream he could wake up from.

This was happening.

A sharp knock at the door made him jump.

His pulse hammered against his ribs. He turned toward the sound, frozen.

Just like in Barcelona.

A voice, muffled through the wooden door. “Mr. Carter?”

His stomach twisted.

He took slow, cautious steps toward the door. His fingers hovered over the handle, but he hesitated.

“Who is it?” His voice came out hoarse.

A pause. Then, “Room service.”

Ethan didn’t believe that for a second.

He pulled the door open.

Standing in the hallway was a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a brown coat and holding a folded newspaper. He had a calm, knowing expression, as if he had expected Ethan to open the door.

The man studied him for a moment before speaking. “You’re awake.”

Ethan’s throat tightened. “Who the hell are you?”

The man didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he handed Ethan the newspaper.

Confused, Ethan unfolded it and scanned the front page.

Then his breath caught.

His own face stared back at him.

The headline read:

"Ethan Carter: Missing for Three Weeks. Last Seen in Chicago."

Ethan stumbled back, gripping the doorframe. “This—this isn’t real.”

But the photo was unmistakable. It was him. His same dark hair, his same sharp jawline. It looked like a security camera still, grainy but clear enough to recognize.

His heart pounded in his chest. “This is a mistake. I’ve only been gone for a day. Two, maybe.”

The man shook his head slowly. “Not from the world’s perspective.”

Ethan’s skin went cold.

“No,” he muttered, flipping through the pages. “This isn’t possible.”

“Isn’t it?” The man’s voice was steady. “You woke up here without knowing how. The same thing happened yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Time doesn’t move the way you think it does.”

Ethan’s head snapped up. “You know what’s happening to me?”

The man exhaled, tilting his head. “I know enough.”

Ethan clenched his jaw. “Then tell me.”

The man studied him for a moment before asking, “Have you noticed it yet?”

Ethan narrowed his eyes. “Noticed what?”

The man’s gaze was unwavering. “It’s not just the places that change, Ethan. It’s you.”

A slow dread curled in Ethan’s stomach. He didn’t understand what that meant. He looked down at himself—his hands, his clothes. Everything seemed normal.

But then, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window.

And his blood ran cold.

His face.

His hair was slightly longer than it should have been. His beard had grown out, even though he had shaved yesterday.

And his eyes—

They looked older. Worn. As if he had lived through years he couldn’t remember.

A deep, gnawing terror gripped his chest.

The man watched him carefully. “Now you see it.”

Ethan’s breathing turned ragged. He took a step back, gripping the doorframe to keep himself steady.

“What’s happening to me?” His voice was barely a whisper.

The man sighed. “You’re being shown something. The question is—are you ready to see it?”

Silence stretched between them.

Ethan wanted to say no. He wanted to pretend none of this was real, to wake up in his apartment in Chicago, to erase every unsettling detail of the last two days.

But deep inside him, something whispered: You already know the answer.

This wasn’t just about waking up in new places.

This was about who he was.

And why he couldn’t remember the life he had already lived.

A/N:– Thank you so much for taking the time to read. Stay tuned, for the next chapter!

If you haven't read previous Chapters, you can read them too.