🌘 The Room That Remembers You

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here.

The first thought slides through my mind like a notification popping up during a livestream you absolutely didn’t ask for. One second I’m blinking at a cracked ceiling tile, the next I’m sitting upright on a narrow bed with sheets so white they feel suspicious. Sterile white. Dream-sequence white. “You’re-about-to-make-a-bad-decision” white.

My heartbeat thumps like a glitchy bass drop. The place smells faintly of ozone and lavender, which is a combo you usually only get if an air freshener and a lightning bolt had a chaotic situationship.

I swing my legs off the bed. The floor is cold. Not normal cold. More like “someone turned the AC down to Antarctic mode” cold. My phone is nowhere in sight. No windows. One door. A single lamp buzzing like it’s debating retirement.

So yeah, vibes are off.

I whisper to myself, because talking to yourself is free therapy when you’re trapped. “Okay... we’re in our ‘mysterious waking nightmare’ era. Love that. Thriving.”

Nothing answers.

At least not yet.

The Door That’s Definitely Judging Me

I approach the door. It’s matte black, no handle, no keypad, no locks. Just there. A vibe, not a door. When I reach out, it shivers. Yes. The door shivers. Like it’s ticklish or annoyed or maybe both.

“What are you hiding?” I mumble. I’m Gen Z. I will trauma-dump at an inanimate object if pressed.

The door responds by… opening. Silently. Smoothly. Like a cat deciding you’re finally worthy.

The hallway outside is long. Too long. Stretching forward like someone clicked and dragged reality. The walls ripple faintly, as if breathing. The entire place hums with energy that feels both familiar and wrong, like remembering a song you swear you’ve never heard.

I step out because staying in the weird lavender-lightning bedroom isn’t high on my wishlist.

The door closes behind me.

And disappears.

“Okay,” I say. “Cool. Love that journey for us.”

A Voice That Knows My Past Better Than I Do

I walk.

The hallway seems endless, but after maybe a minute, a soft voice echoes around me. Not from ahead, not from behind. Everywhere.

“You’re early.”

I stop so fast my socks skid on the glossy floor. “I’m what?”

“Early,” the voice says. “You weren’t expected yet.”

“Yeah,” I shoot back, “I wasn’t expecting to be here either. Can we start with who you are and how I got drafted into your cosmic escape room.”

A soft laugh. Warm. Familiar.

“You always talk like this.”

“I always what?” I put my hands on my hips in full emotionally-done stance. “Who are you?”

“Someone who remembers you.”

The hallway lights flicker. And with each flicker, short flashes of my memories dart across the walls like movie projections. Me at five, covered in mud. Me at twelve, crying during math homework. Me at seventeen, falling in love with someone who did not deserve it. Me last week, microwaving noodles at 3AM.

“What is this?” I ask, breath hitching.

“A reminder,” the voice says. “Of who you were before you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget anything.”

“Oh,” the voice murmurs, almost sadly, “you forgot everything.”

Doors That Don’t Lead Where You Expect

Suddenly the hallway splits, branching into three identical corridors. Classic ominous fork-in-the-road energy. Each path pulses with a faint color: blue, green, red.

Blue radiates calm. Green hums with potential. Red vibrates with something sharper, something that feels like a dare.

“You must choose,” the voice says.

“Choose what? I don’t even know what I’m choosing.”

“Exactly.”

The Gen Z in me wants to pick red. Because chaos. The older-and-slightly-wiser part wants blue. Because therapy. The “I want to fix my life arc” part votes green.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Green seems least likely to kill me. Hopefully.”

When I step into the green corridor, the air warms. The walls begin showing scenes again. But not my memories this time.

These are… possible futures.

I see myself on a stage speaking to a crowd. I see myself traveling. I see myself building something, helping someone, creating a life that feels wide instead of small. A life where I’m not constantly apologizing for taking up space.

I slow down. My chest tightens.

“What is this place?” I whisper.

“A threshold.”

“And what am I… supposed to become?”

The voice hesitates.

“Yourself.”

The Room at the End

The green corridor ends at another door. This one is wooden, warm, inviting. A total upgrade from the anxiety-door from earlier. My hand trembles as I reach for the handle.

“Before you enter,” the voice says, closer now, “you must remember why you came.”

I want to scream because I don’t know. I don’t even know how I got here. But deep down something stirs. A spark. A forgotten whisper.

“I think…” I swallow. “I think something happened to me. Something I tried not to face.”

“Yes,” the voice says gently.

“And you brought me here to… what? Force me into a character-development episode?”

A soft chuckle. “You brought yourself here. I only kept the lights on.”

My pulse quickens. “What’s behind that door?”

“Truth.”

Well. Okay. Sounds mildly terrifying.

But I push the door open anyway.

Inside is a small room. A mirror hangs on the wall. Nothing else.

No monsters. No cosmic beings. No crazy plot twist villains.

Just me.

My reflection stares back, except… not exactly. The version in the mirror looks steadier. Clearer. Like someone who’s been through storms and built a raft out of the debris.

“Hey,” Mirror Me says.

I yelp. “Oh we’re doing the talking mirror thing? Great. Love that trope.”

“You buried something,” Mirror Me continues. “Something that hurt you. And forgetting it came with a cost.”

“What did I forget?”

Mirror Me steps forward, placing a hand against the glass. “That people hurt you, but you survived. That you weren’t weak for breaking, but strong for healing. That you deserved more than you accepted. That your story didn’t end where you thought it did.”

A lump forms in my throat.

“You came here,” the voice adds, now echoing inside my head instead of around me, “because you were ready to remember.”

And then the memory hits.

A person I trusted. A choice I made. A heartbreak so sharp I folded inward and hid behind jokes and late-night distractions. I shoved it all into a locked box in my mind.

But boxes rot. Locks rust. And memories leak.

I gasp, knees weakening, but Mirror Me catches my gaze.

“You’re not there anymore,” they say. “You’re here.”

Slowly, the fear loosens its grip.

And for the first time in a long time, I breathe.

The Room That Isn’t a Prison

The walls soften. The ceiling stretches upward. Light spills into the room like morning finally showing up after a long night shift.

“You can leave now,” the voice says. “Or stay. The path forward is yours.”

“Where does the exit lead?”

“A life where you aren’t hiding from yourself.”

“Sounds exhausting,” I mutter.

“Everything worth doing is.”

Fair point.

I look at Mirror Me one last time. They smile with this quiet pride that hits harder than it should.

“Ready?” they ask.

“No,” I admit. “But I’m going anyway.”

The mirror shimmers. A doorway opens inside it, warm and shining like sunrise.

I step through.

Back to the World

I blink.

Suddenly I’m in my bedroom. The familiar worn rug. The messy desk. The hoodie I haven’t washed in questionable amounts of time. My phone buzzes with a notification. Reality clicks back into place.

Except something’s different.

I feel… lighter. Like the emotional weight I’ve been dragging around finally loosened its grip. I remember what hurt. But I’m not running from it anymore.

And somewhere, faintly, a familiar voice whispers:

“I remember you.”

So I whisper back:

“I remember me too.”