Eli. I'm Eli, just your run-of-the-mill guy with a job that pays the bills and a life that, from the outside, looks pretty much like anyone else's. I've been married to Clara for twelve years now. She's a scientist, always got her head buried in research, and me, well, I'm not. I work in IT, fixing problems that usually turn out to be a misplaced click more than anything else. Our marriage, if I'm being honest, has seen better days. It's not that we don't love each other. It's just that somewhere along the line, we started drifting apart. Clara's passion for her work means late nights at the lab and conversations at dinner that revolve around her latest project. I try to listen, really, I do. But there's only so much excitement I can muster about gene sequences and lab results. We used to talk about everything—dreams, fears, the silly moments that make life worth living. Now, it feels like we're just sharing space, polite strangers handling the routines of daily life. I miss her, even when she's sitting right across from me, lost in thoughts I can't seem to reach. Lately, the silence has grown heavier, a strange thing that sits at the dinner table with us, mocking my attempts to bridge the gap. I find myself wondering where we go from here. Can we find our way back to each other, or have we wandered too far apart? It's a question that haunts me, especially in the quiet hours of the night when the world is asleep, and I'm left alone with my thoughts.

Maya. There's been this new dynamic at work that's sorta thrown me for a loop. Her name's Maya, a recent hire in the marketing department. Maya's got this energy about her, a spark that lights up a room the moment she walks in. She's curious about everything, always asking questions, diving deep into topics most people skim over. I found myself staying later at the office, under the guise of tying up loose ends or tackling overdue projects. But if I'm laying all my cards on the table, it's mostly to catch those moments when Maya's still there, too. We talk about everything and nothing—movies, books, the oddities of daily life. It's refreshing, having conversations that meander and twist, never quite ending up where you expect. There's an ease to our interactions, a natural flow that I haven't felt in a long time. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't drawn to her, to the way she sees the world, vibrant and full of possibilities. It's like she's from a different universe than the one I've been living in, one where the colors are a bit brighter, and the air's a bit clearer. I haven't crossed any lines. It's just talking, sharing parts of our days, exchanging laughs over cups of lukewarm office coffee. Yet, I can't shake this feeling, this sense of anticipation that bubbles up inside me whenever I know I'll see her. It's nothing serious, not really. At least, not yet. And while I find myself drawn into Maya's orbit, there's a pang of guilt that shadows these stolen moments. Clara's image, the memory of us in better times, flickers in my mind, a reminder of the vows we took. I'm standing at a crossroads, caught between the comfort of the familiar and the allure of the unknown, and I'm not quite sure which way to turn.

Nights. Sleep has been playing hard to get. It's like we're in a game of hide and seek, and I'm always it, searching for a sliver of rest that remains just out of reach. Nights stretch on, a canvas of darkness painted with my tossing and turning. The bed feels too big, too empty, even with Clara there, her presence more like a memory than a reality. I lie awake, and stare at the ceiling, tracing the faint outlines of shadows as they dance in the moonlight. My mind races, and sometimes I replay conversations with Maya, dissecting the silences between Clara and me, wondering about what ifs and what could have beens. It's a vortex of thoughts, none of them leading to the peace I crave. Mornings greet me with a grogginess that clings like a second skin. I drag myself out of bed, feeling like I've wrestled with the night and lost. Coffee becomes my closest ally, a bitter liquid lifeline that pulls me into the day. But even as I go through the motions, there's a fog that hovers, clouding my thoughts, dulling my senses. The cause of this sleepless affliction puzzles me. Is it guilt, gnawing at the edges of my conscience for the time spent with Maya? Is it the growing chasm in my marriage, a silent scream in the night that jolts me awake? Or perhaps it's the fear of what lies ahead, the uncertainty of a future that seems more like a question mark with each passing day. Whatever the reason, the effect is clear—I'm adrift in a sea of wakefulness, searching for a lighthouse to guide me home to rest. And as the days blur into one another, the search becomes more desperate, a quest not just for sleep, but for peace, for answers, for a way back to a life that feels like my own.

Wednesday. Finally, sleep has claimed me, and pulls me into its elusive embrace. But it is a victory short-lived. What feels like moments later, I wake to a room washed in the timid light of dawn peeking through the shutters, their slats not quite closed, casting striped shadows across the room. The light is too faint, a whisper of morning not yet ready to speak up. Panic seizes me as I try to sit up, to reach out, to call for Clara—anything. But my body refuses to obey. My limbs lay heavy and unresponsive. My voice feels like a prisoner in my throat. It offers no sound. I’m trapped in my own flesh, a mind fully awake encased in a shell that might as well have been made of stone. The fear that perhaps I've suffered a stroke in the depths of the night claws at me with icy fingers. This has to be it, the only explanation for why I lie immobile, a silent observer to the creeping dawn. My heart hammers against my ribcage, a futile attempt to escape the dread that fills every corner of my being. Straining my eyes to the side, I seek the familiar form of Clara. Her steady breathing used to be a comforting rhythm in the quiet of our room. But there is nothing. The space next to me could have been empty for all I can tell. Is she really not there, or have my senses abandoned me as well, leaving me in a world devoid of touch, movement, and now sound? The room feels foreign, as if I've awakened in a place I no longer recognize.

Clara. As the grip of fear holds me tight, immobile and mute, a flicker of movement catches my peripheral vision. To the left, where the wall meets the shadows that the dawn's weak light dares not touch, there is something... no, someone. My heart skips. There, standing in the quiet corner of our room, is Clara. Or at least, the shape of her. I can’t say for sure. And actually she’s just standing there, silent as the room itself, staring down at me. Not a word, not a whisper, nothing to suggest she’s more than a statue carved from the night. Her face is obscured by the dimness, her expression a mystery that the weak morning light refuses to unveil. But it is her stillness that unnerves me the most. I try to call out to her, to ask her to come closer, to touch me, to reassure me that this is just a bad dream fading with the morning light. But my voice is a prisoner too, and my body a cell from which I can’t escape. The more I strain to move, to speak, the more she remains a silent sentinel in the corner, watching, waiting.

Dawn. A creeping doubt begins to worm its way through the fear that has ensnared me. Something about her—about the way she just stands there, tells me that all is not as it should be. It is Clara, yet not Clara, a paradox that my mind struggles to reconcile. The shadows drape her form like a cloak, hiding the details that might confirm or deny my growing suspicion. Is her posture too rigid, her silence too profound? Desperate for release, for the nightmare to end, I will my body to fight against the invisible chains that bind it. It’s a battle waged within the confines of my own flesh and bone. And then, as suddenly as it has begun, the veil begins to recede, and the weight lifts like fog at sunrise. Slipping back into the depths of sleep means getting away from the haunting visage in the corner and the unanswered questions that linger in the air. Time loses its meaning again. And when morning finally breaks, true morning with the sun high and bright, I awake to find Clara beside me. The sound of her soft snoring fills the space between us. Relief washes over me, though it carries the bitter aftertaste of confusion. I’m watching her sleep. Has it been real?

Thursday. It’s Thursday. Under the hum of the office’s fluorescent lights and the clatter of keyboards, I find myself drawn to Maya's desk, because the urge to share my night's ordeal presses against my chest like a physical weight. It isn't something I've planned, spilling my fears to a colleague, especially Maya, with her easy smile and way of making everything seem magical. Yet, I need a listener in a sea of unspoken dread. When I start, my voice is barely above a whisper, as if the very walls might carry my confession to ears it isn't meant for. I tell her about the helplessness, the shadow that was Clara but not Clara. I leave out no detail, save for the deeper fears of what it all might mean. Maya listens, and her brows knit together in concern and curiosity as my tale unfolds. When I finish, there’s a moment of silence, the kind that speaks volumes. Then, with a reassuring tilt of her head, she offers her take. To her, it sounds like a typical sleep disorder, more common than one may think. And I want to believe her, to take her words and wrap them around me like a shield.

Secrets. I can't bring myself to ask Clara about her nocturnal activities. The thought of voicing my fear, asking if she's stood over me in the dead of night, seems ridiculous, the kind of question that could only widen the gap between us. It’s sad. My life these days feels like a tumultuous river, unpredictable and dangerous. And at its heart is my relationship with Clara, the rock around which the current breaks, eroding bit by bit. I know there’s a forked path ahead that’s shrouded in mist. One road lures me into change, into an escape from the spectral doubts and the silence that has grown between us. The idea of moving out flickers in my mind like a candle in the wind. It promises relief, but deep inside I doubt that this would solve all my problems.

And so, remorse follows, and shadows the idea with guilt and uncertainty. Clara still holds a piece of mine. The thought of wounding her, of being the one to sever what tenuous connection we have, is still too hard to think through completely. Would my fear and confusion be worth the price of her pain? There’s a battle raging within me, a tug-of-war between self-preservation and the remnants of love that refuse to die. The ghosts of happier times haunt me, and bind me to her even as I yearn to break free. Admittedly, I feel more alone than ever.

Evening. The house is quiet, too quiet, with Clara's absence. She's called earlier, and she didn’t have to say much, because I’m already familiar with her voice of apology and resolve, that says she'd be spending yet another night at the lab. Her research seems always her first love. It claims most of her time and attention. How could I not understand that? To drown the silence, I turn to the company of whiskey. I do this sometimes, but not often. Its amber liquid promises forgetfulness, or at the very least, a companion in my isolation. Drink followed drink. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so, sleep comes easily, a dark wave that pulls me under without the usual fight. I already sensed it by the time I went to bed, later than usual. But then, somewhere in the depths of darkness, I’m trapped once more in that terrifying wakefulness. Eyes open, body immobile, a prisoner within my own flesh. I can’t grasp it. Not the night before. And not now. There is movement—shadowy and peripheral, but unmistakably there. Is it Clara flitting about the room? Has she just returned home? My heart pounds, a drum of fear in the quiet night, because I could only watch helplessly. From the corners of my eyes, I see her carrying books from the shelf to the desk, then back again, her actions purposeful yet perplexing. Why books? What silent ritual is she performing in the depths of night? The logic part of my brain, the part not muddled by whiskey and weariness, screams that it is impossible. Is this again some trick of the mind, a drunken dream weaving reality with hallucination? Or has my life truly slipped into the realm of the uncanny, where the lines between waking and sleeping, presence and absence, blur beyond recognition?

Friday. As the first light of dawn seeps through the curtains, I approach the bookshelf. My movements are sluggish, as if moving through water. The books stand in orderly rows, untouched, exactly as they were the night before. Or at least, that's how it seems. My eyes scan the titles. I’m searching for any sign of the nightly activity I'm sure I witnessed, but everything is in its place, undisturbed. But for what exactly am I looking? The rational part of my mind tells me this is proof, evidence that my visions are nothing but the products of sleep disorder and a whiskey-soaked imagination. Yet, the certainty with which I saw her rearrange those books gnaws at me. I notice Clara lying beside me, and her breathing is as deep and even as always. She will yearn for more sleep after returning late from her research. In all honesty, the thought that my mind might be betraying me, confusing reality and illusion, sends a shiver down my spine. I'm teetering on the edge, caught between the world I know and a shadow realm of my own making. I’m exhausted. The exhaustion saps my strength and clouds my thoughts. The simple act of making coffee feels like an insurmountable task. My body moves on autopilot, guided by habit rather than conscious thought. I reach for the phone. A few words, a brief explanation, and it's done—I've bought myself a few more hours of respite, a temporary retreat from the demands of the day. Working in IT affords me this small mercy, the flexibility to start late. All it takes is a call.

Sanity. I'm losing my grip. My reality is fraying at the edges. The thought of facing the day, of stepping into the light fills me with a dread that's hard to shake. I'm adrift, caught in a current of uncertainty, struggling to find my way back to the shore. Time stretches and bends. The morning drags its feet as I sit on the sofa, still undressed, the quilt from the guest room draped over me for some semblance of comfort. I haven't moved, haven't found the will to start the day. My thoughts circle endlessly without finding purchase. Finally, Clara comes downstairs, and the sight of her – so real, so tangible – pierces the fog of my thoughts. Her expression shifts from sleepy contentment to surprise as she sees me. Her eyes scan me, taking in my disheveled state, the quilt that's a poor substitute for actual clothing. I ask her about the time she came home the previous night and whether she has gone directly to bed or has been up for a while. She looks perplexed. I notice the deepening surprise as she explains that she had arrived home late, as usual after a long night at the lab, and has gone straight to bed. She wonders why I was asking and what’s wrong. I'm left grappling with the chasm that seems to have opened up between us, between my reality and hers. The words to explain, to bridge that gap, elude me, and slip through my fingers like smoke. Suddenly I realize how far I've drifted from the shores of understanding.

Work. At work, the hours meld into a monotonous blur, and my focus is scattered like leaves in the wind. Maya picks up on my disarray before I even have the chance to mask it. Our interactions are fleeting, yet I know she senses the turmoil beneath my facade. And so I share with her, in broad strokes, the ordeal of the previous night. The words come out jumbled, a clumsy attempt to convey the fear and confusion that held me captive. The suggestion of seeing a sleep specialist surfaces between us. Maya mentions her connections, a network of professionals who might expedite the typically sluggish process of securing an appointment. The relief that comes with her offer is immediate, a glimmer of hope in what has felt like an endless tunnel. I think her willingness to help, to step in and arrange something so crucial, cements the bond that has been forming between us.

Surveillance. Deciding that waiting for an external specialist isn't enough, I feel compelled to take matters into my own hands. From the stock of unused equipment at work, I discreetly borrow a tiny surveillance camera, small enough to escape notice yet capable of recording clear video. Back at home, the task of installing the camera without it being detected feels strangely exhilarating. I choose a spot that gives the lens an unobstructed view of the bed, and position the camera in a way that is both inconspicuous and effective. I connect it to my laptop to make sure that I can review the footage the next day. The possibility that my episodes of wakefulness and the accompanying visions are more than just dreams hangs in the balance. I'm seeking clarity, and tonight, I hope, will bring answers.

Afternoon. On this particular Friday afternoon, the house envelops me in its quiet solitude. Clara has yet to return from her latest stint at the lab. I decide to prepare dinner, something to welcome her with when she finally comes home. As I chop vegetables and watch the simmering pots, my mind drifts to Maya. Our connection has grown into something that occupies my thoughts more than I care to admit. The ease of our conversations and her empathetic concern have woven a thread of possibility. Yet, as I start stirring the sauce and contemplate the future, doubt creeps in. Can something truly new and desirable blossom from this, or is it merely a fleeting distraction from the reality of my strained marriage? The complexity of all this leaves me adrift. As the afternoon wanes and the time for Clara's return draws closer, the preparation of dinner becomes more than just a meal; it's a metaphor for the decisions I must face, blending ingredients in hopes of creating something harmonious yet unsure of the final taste.

Relief. Dinner with Clara unfolds in a surprisingly pleasant atmosphere. Slowly I find myself making a silent decision regarding Maya, and resolve to keep our connection simmering on a slow burn. The ease and laughter shared with Clara this evening remind me of the foundation upon which our relationship was built. Not all is lost between us. On this evening, we reconnect in a way that has become increasingly rare. The intimacy we share tonight, culminating in a physical closeness that has eluded us for months, feels both familiar and strangely new. As we go to bed, the good mood lingers. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, sleep comes easily to me. There's no struggle, no fear, just a gentle drift into darkness. Remarkably, the night passes without incident—no dreamlike awakenings, no figures moving in the shadows, just a deep, dreamless sleep that envelopes me in its peace. This unexpected reprieve fills me with relief, as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Perhaps it's a sign, a nudge towards working through the challenges we face, grounded in the knowledge that beneath the layers of routine and misunderstanding, something worth saving still exists between us.

Sunday. The morning greets me with a slight apprehension as I sit down to review the footage captured by the hidden camera. It reveals nothing but a quiet night's sleep. I can't help but find a bit of humor in watching my own restless attempts to find a comfortable position, my body tossing from left to right in a dance of unease, all sped up to a comical pace. Clara, in contrast, remains almost statuesque beside me, her movements minimal throughout the night. Feeling refreshed in a way that's been foreign to me for too long, I welcome the routine of a typical Sunday morning. The simple pleasures of brewing a pot of coffee ground me in the moment. I take my time preparing breakfast. The sizzle of eggs in the pan, the toast popping up golden brown, all contribute to a sense of normalcy and comfort. It's a slow, deliberate kind of morning, where the pressures of work fade into the background. And I feel a lightness to my steps, a clarity in my thoughts that's been missing. The confirmation of a night unmarred by the unseen and the unsettling has given me a renewed sense of control over my own life, a feeling that's both grounding and liberating. The usualness feels like a gift.

Mail. As the morning unfolds into a gentle afternoon, I find myself watching Clara on the porch, sorting through yesterday's mail. There's a casualness to her movements, until her hand pauses over a special envelope. There's something about the way she handles it, a momentary hesitation, before she slips it into her trouser pocket and continues with the rest of the mail as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. The action strikes me as odd, but in the moment, I don't dwell on it. It's only a small, curious blip in an otherwise uneventful day, or so I tell myself. However, this fleeting moment of curiosity resurfaces with a jolt later in the day. Returning inside the house after briefly stepping out, I catch Clara in the midst of a phone call. Upon noticing me enter, the conversation, whatever its nature, is abruptly cut off, and her demeanor shifts from relaxed to almost panicked as she sees me. The phone is quickly stowed away, and her forced smile does little to mask the sudden tension. The casualness of the day is momentarily pierced by a sense of unease, a reminder that not all is as it seems. The pieces of a puzzle, minor and seemingly unrelated, begin to coalesce into a picture I'm not sure I want to see completed. Yet, I choose to let the moment pass, and push these thoughts aside, focusing instead on the simple pleasures of the weekend, even as the questions quietly simmer beneath the surface.

Uneasiness. As the day wears on, the familiar tension creeps back. It's an uneasiness that's hard to pin down, a vague sense of disquiet that refuses to be ignored. This discomfort, I start to realize, might stem from a deeper issue between Clara and me—a lack of trust that has silently grown over time, like ivy creeping up a wall until it obscures the view entirely. The more I think about it, the more it bothers me that I know so little about Clara's work. True, I understand the broad strokes—she's dedicated to her research, often lost in a world of data and discovery that seems a universe away from my own. But the specifics, the day-to-day triumphs and challenges, remain a mystery. Shouldn't partners share these things? Isn't part of being together the act of opening up about our daily battles and victories, no matter how ordinary or complex? The notion that we've allowed ourselves to drift into this state of polite cohabitation, where significant parts of our lives remain closed off to each other, is disheartening. It's as though we're content to live on the surface of things, never diving too deep for fear of what we might find.

Smile. Feeling a sense of anxiety that refuses to be named, I decide to activate the camera again before heading to bed. The quiet of the previous night feels like a deceptive pause. Sunday evenings are typically a time for winding down, yet tonight, stress courses through me, an undercurrent of tension that I can't shake off. As I lay in bed, the battle for sleep is fierce. It's a struggle, a back-and-forth tug-of-war between my need for rest and the relentless activity of my brain. And somehow I know—this is a bad omen that settles over me like a heavy blanket just before sleep finally claims victory, dragging me into its depths. When my eyes snap open, I'm awake, yet imprisoned within my own body, a silent observer to the shadow play unfolding in my peripheral vision. There's movement, subtle yet unmistakable, a presence that dances just beyond my direct line of sight. Then, suddenly, Clara is there, looming over me like a specter in the night. Her expression is one of concern, morphing into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It's a smile that chills me to the bone. But it's her eyes that hold me captive, that send a jolt of terror racing through my paralyzed form. They're wrong—somehow not hers, not the eyes of the woman I've shared my life with. They belong to someone, or something, else. I try to remember Clara's eye color. But I can’t.

Alarm. When the alarm sounds, I lie there, motionless from a deep-seated fear of confronting the reality of what might have transpired while I was trapped in my own body. Clara remains undisturbed beside me, her breathing even and calm. Gathering the remnants of my courage, I finally rise. The need for a strong coffee propels me forward. With the steaming cup in hand, I approach my laptop. The cursor hovers over the icon that would unveil the truth of the night. I hesitate. But finally, I click, and the footage rolls before my eyes. But it reveals nothing but the calm of an undisturbed sleep. Should relief flood me? A confirmation that the terrors of the night were nothing more than the figments of my imagination? Yet, the absence of evidence only deepens my unease. If it was all a dream, why did it feel so undeniably real?

Dr. Spencer. The thought of living in a constant cycle of fear and confusion is not something I can accept. Maya's right—this can't be my permanent state. There must be a name for what afflicts me, a diagnosis that can lead to a cure, or at least a way to manage these episodes. The idea that I've been treating it all too lightly, as if ignoring it might make it disappear, now seems foolish, a denial of the severity of my situation. I listen as Dr. Spencer explains that what I've been experiencing seems to align with a mild case of sleep paralysis. He details the condition with clinical precision, describing it as a disconnect between the brain and the body as one transitions between sleep states. The mind becomes aware while the body remains in a state of paralysis, a leftover from the REM stage of sleep meant to prevent us from acting out our dreams. This dissonance creates a state where one is conscious but unable to move or speak, often accompanied by vivid hallucinations that can be terrifying in their realism. That doesn’t sound so good. My mind latches onto the word mild. I can't help but wonder what a strong case would entail. Dr. Spencer listens as I share more about my life recently—my strained marriage, the growing distance between Clara and me, my fledgling connection with Maya, and the unyielding pressure at work. He nods. The tension and unresolved issues in my personal and professional life are potential catalysts, he explains, fueling the episodes of paralysis. Reduce the stress in your life! It sounds straightforward, but as the words settle in, the complexity of the task becomes evident. Identifying the sources of stress is one thing; finding ways to alleviate them is another challenge entirely. The idea that the key to overcoming my nightly terrors lies not in medication or therapy, but in confronting and resolving the stressors that pervade my waking life, is both a relief and a daunting prospect.

Decisions. Making decisions has never been one of my strengths, at least not the life-altering kind. At work, the choices are straightforward, logical, often with a clear right or wrong answer. But the decisions I face now, the ones concerning my personal life, are of an entirely different magnitude. They're tangled in emotions, in the potential for hurt and irreversible change, and I find myself hesitating at the precipice of choice. The idea of talking things through with Clara or Maya swirls in my mind. Yet, a part of me doubts whether conversation will bring clarity or just add layers to an already complex situation. Action is demanded, yet I'm paralyzed by the fear of making the wrong move. The solution lies within me. Yet, the path forward remains clouded, a maze of possibilities and what-ifs. The approaching night already looms large in my mind. I feel the strong urge to reach out, to connect with another human voice. And I know that I have to call Clara at the lab. I realize, perhaps for the first time, how adept Clara has always been at soothing me. It's a comforting thought, a thread of hope to cling to as I dial her number. There's no answer, just the cold, impersonal tone of a phone ringing into the void. I try the lab's lobby. Clara, it seems, isn't at the lab; she hasn't been for a while. She's taken a time-out to work on a special project, details of which are shrouded in secrecy. It’s like a splash of cold water, shocking and unexpected. How could I not have known? Has our communication frayed so badly that such significant pieces of our lives remain hidden from each other?

Couch. The thought of going to bed fills me with a sense of dread, a palpable fear that grips my heart with cold fingers. I'm exhausted, the kind of deep, bone-weary tiredness that seeps into every muscle, begging for the relief of sleep. Yet, my fear keeps me anchored to the living room, wary of the bedroom that has become a battleground for my mind. I've turned to whiskey again. Deep down, I know it's futile. It didn't help last time, and the sinking feeling in my gut tells me it won't help this time either. I feel alone, and attempt to distract myself with the television. For a while, it works. Gradually, the monotony on the screen lulls me. My eyelids grow heavy, the weight of sleep impossible to resist any longer. I don't care about the bed. The couch feels like a safe haven.

Paralyzed. As I awake, the grip of paralysis ensnares me once again. This time, even in the haze of half-sleep and half-wakefulness, a part of me almost anticipated it. My head is immobilized, my gaze fixed forward, my peripheral vision my only window to the world. From the edges of my sight, I see two figures standing on either side of the sofa. They lean forward into my limited field of view. It's Clara… and Maya. Their faces hover above me, and carry strange, misleading smiles. They look wrong, artificial, as if pasted onto their faces. But it's their eyes that send a wave of terror coursing through me. Clara's eyes, the color and shape I couldn't recall, now clearly belong to Maya, and Maya's to Clara. That’s what made Clara's gaze seem so alien the night before, an incongruity I couldn't place until now. I become aware of another presence in the room, one I can't see but can feel. A deep, booming voice fills the space, its words indiscernible, a drone that shifts in frequency. The sound wraps around me like an auditory fog that deepens the paralysis.

Sleep. My eyes capture Clara bending down toward me. In her hand, she holds an object that, through my peripheral vision, bears the semblance of a syringe. The clarity of this moment leaves no room for doubt, yet part of me hopes I'm wrong. I’m defenseless, unable to resist. But then, the sensation changes. Suddenly, an unexpected calm washes over me. It's a serenity so profound, so encompassing, that all my fears, all the terror of the last few moments, begin to fade into insignificance. There's a warmth that spreads from the point of contact, radiating through my body, filling me with a sense of well-being I haven't known for what feels like an eternity. Everything's going to be alright. All my worries seem to dissolve into this simple, profound understanding. I welcome it. I embrace it. Deep sleep will finally come.