Notes: trigger warning suicide. I'm not going to add any other trigger warnings because it hurts the ambiguity I deliberately put into this story.
Light seeps through the seams of the shut door, golden and white and blue and red, all fluorescent. You turn away.
On the other side of the room lies a brilliant green-blue-purple-black-something else, deeply saturated. It’s too bright for how dark it is, seeking out the light.
In between is you.
The stars call, the stars beckon. Logically, you know the sun is one of them, but they are infinitely far away. They wait; the sun knocks down your door.
The green-blue-purple-black-something else grew. It wasn’t always there, you think. It’s impossible to know, in the fog of your mind. It pulses, you breathe with it.
You shut the door, by chance, on the third day. You haven’t quite been able to open it again.
Join us, the stars whisper.
It’s been a week since you shut the door; it has not yet been opened. Nothing has come through, nothing has left. The light remains.
You’re not plagued by hunger, nor thirst, nor anything else. You don’t know why. There’s something wrong here. You don’t know if it’s the light or if it’s the something else.
You crave something more, the stars whisper. You are one of us.
There is a window in the room, that is true. It always seems to be night outside, and you can never see the moon, just millions of stars that gleam like holes in a tapestry held up to light. Below, dozens of feet fall into the ground.
You breathe in. The something else breathes with you.
Let yourself out, the stars promise. They glisten and wait.
You touch the something else for the first time three weeks in. It has an airy, light texture, but wrong in some inscrutable way.
You used to be so sure; you’re not certain if the light or the something else is more fake.
We are real, the stars remind you. They are not.
You’re not quite sure if that second part is a lie or not; would the stars lie to you?
Are you real?
We are home, the stars whisper, and then they fall silent, waiting, watching.
You open the window. You look back, at the light and the something else. It pulses.
You remember the stars’ promise, and climb out the window. Hard ground sits dozens of feet below, but the stars sing above you.
The light rushes in, though the door remains shut. The something else reaches out, as if to trap you in its grasp.
The stars sing above you, waiting, watching.
You jump.