TAEMIN

I always thought that dreams were weird. The same thing always happens—by the time I realize I’m in one, it’s already on its way and I don’t remember how it started. It’s an unsettling feeling. It prickles my skin and I shiver as I try to shake the feeling off. I instinctively try to remember how I ended up here, but I know it’s in vain. Dreams wouldn’t be dreams if we knew how they work.

I realize that I’m lying in bed, but I instantly know that it’s not my bed. The mattress is bigger and softer, and it simply doesn’t feel the same. I wonder if I ever slept in a bed like this one. I probably have, otherwise my mind wouldn’t be able to recreate such a believing sensation. I slowly raise my hand in the air to gauge how this feels, and suddenly I’m breathless. I can feel my muscles working to lift my arm up. It feels so real. For a split second, I wonder if I’m really in a dream.

But I must be, because I don’t recognize the room I’m in as I lift my head and look around. The room is completely empty, but the feeling is emphasized by the mere size of the room. It’s huge. And it looks expensive. The walls are decorated with panels and there is old furniture around. What am I doing here?

I notice an old phone by the bedside table. Maybe I could call someone. The first person that comes to my mind is Minho, and I have no idea why. I try to remember when the last time I saw him was, but the more I try to think, the blurrier it gets, to the po