She squeezed her eyes shut, but the dream’s projector kept rolling. Now she was in the living room. Mark stood by the window, his back to her, phone in hand. The glow lit his face in sickly blue. He was scrolling through photos. Photos she recognized. Her own phone’s gallery, but the shots were wrong. Angles she never took. Her laughing at a bar she’d never been to. Her hand resting on a knee that wasn’t Mark’s. Her lips parted in the passenger seat of a car she didn’t own.
Downstairs, the building’s front door clicked shut. ntr nightmare
The dream always started the same way: with the front door clicking shut. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the dream’s
The dream shifted. Now she was in their bathroom, door locked. Through the wood, Mark’s voice came muffled, but the words were clear. “Just tell me his name. That’s all I need. Then I’ll go.” The glow lit his face in sickly blue
She woke gasping, drenched in sweat. The clock said 3:18 AM. Beside her, Mark slept soundly, his chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. She reached out, fingertips brushing his arm. He didn’t stir.
He held up the phone. The photo was timestamped. Date, time, GPS coordinates. All wrong. All damning. And in the image, a man’s arm draped over her shoulder. She couldn’t see his face. Just a watch on his wrist—a stainless steel diver, same as Mark’s.
In the dream, she tried to speak. “That’s not me.” But her mouth filled with sand.