Between Sleep and Silence

Between Sleep and Silence

Blurb:

After a car crash, Zara wakes up in a world that looks exactly like her own — except for one terrifying detail: everyone she loves swears she died three days ago.

The first thing I remember is the smell — burnt rubber and rain.

When I open my eyes, I’m lying in a hospital bed. The ceiling above me hums with a soft white light. Somewhere nearby, a machine beeps steadily.

My throat is dry. “Water,” I whisper.

A nurse appears almost instantly. She looks startled, her eyes wide behind fogged glasses.

“Zara?” she breathes.

“Yes,” I croak. “What happened?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she hurries out of the room.

Moments later, two doctors and another nurse rush in. They stare at me like I’ve risen from the dead.

“Ms. Malik,” the older doctor says carefully, “you were in a car accident three nights ago. You sustained a severe head injury.”

“Three nights?” I frown. “But… I was just driving home from work.”

He exchanges glances with the nurse. “You were in a coma for seventy-two hours.”

Something feels wrong — too quiet, too bright. I reach for my phone on the side table. It’s there, screen cracked, time frozen at 10:43 p.m., the moment everything went black.

The nurse clears her throat. “Your family’s on their way.”

When my parents arrive, they look pale and shaken. My mother’s eyes fill instantly with tears.

“Ammi,” I whisper, “don’t cry, I’m okay.”

But she doesn’t move closer. My father’s hand grips her shoulder as if to hold her back.

“Beta…” he says softly, “we buried you yesterday.”

The words don’t make sense. “You— what?”

My mother sobs. “The doctors said there was no brain activity. We… we let you go.”

I laugh nervously, expecting the dream to end, but the sound cracks into something sharp. “I’m here! Touch me!”

My mother shakes her head, backing away. “This isn’t real.”

The nurse whispers something to the doctor. I catch the word shock. They leave me alone with the sound of my own heartbeat.

That night, I try to sleep, but the room hums strangely. The monitor flickers. At exactly 3:00 a.m., I hear a voice — my own voice — whisper, “You shouldn’t have woken up.”

I sit bolt upright. “Who’s there?”

The lights dim. My reflection in the dark window moves half a second slower than me.

“No,” I mutter. “No, no, no—”

The next morning, they discharge me. My parents refuse to take me home, so my friend Sara drives me to my apartment.

Except when we arrive, the door is sealed with yellow tape.

DO NOT ENTER — POLICE INVESTIGATION.

Sara stares. “Zara, they found you here. You overdosed after the crash.”

I can’t breathe. “That’s not true.”

She’s crying. “I went to your funeral, Zara. I touched your coffin.”

My hands start to tremble. The world tilts slightly, like it’s being held at an angle. “Sara, look at me. Do I look dead?”

She just whispers, “I think you’re… between.”

That night, I wander the empty apartment, breaking the tape. Dust covers everything. My plants are wilted. My cat’s food bowl is empty.

On the wall, someone has written in shaky letters:

“WAKE UP.”

But I already have. Haven’t I?

At 3:00 a.m., the beeping starts again — the same steady hospital rhythm. My reflection in the window smiles when I don’t.

I back away slowly. The lights flicker, and for a split second, I see myself lying on a hospital bed again — flatlined, unmoving.

The beeping grows louder. My chest tightens. The reflection reaches out.

Then silence.

When I open my eyes again, the nurse is standing over me.

“Welcome back,” she says softly. “You’ve been asleep for three days.”

I blink. My voice is hoarse. “Wasn’t I… just here?”

She smiles faintly. “Dreams feel real sometimes.”

But as she turns away, I see the chart at the end of my bed.

Patient name: Zara Malik.

Status: Deceased — 10:43 p.m.

The monitor begins to beep again.

And outside the window, my reflection waves.