The silver knife hits the kitchen floor, its sharp sound drowned out by what resembles honking. It ends, and I lean down to pick up the knife, but another sound, this one like an alarm, kills the silence. I drop it into the sink and twist the peanut butter jar shut with a click. The bread has too much peanut butter on it, but that’s the way she likes it. My eyes shut for a quick second.

I look in the mirror and then down at the sink. The hot water creates a fog that creeps up the mirror, blurring my vision. I must’ve closed my eyes. I remember a dull sound from earlier and find my toothbrush on the bathroom rug. My eyes are still heavy, but the cars outside do their job of keeping me awake. The alarm is still ringing.

Time is running out and I rush to the kitchen to get a sip of water. Why is there a knife on the floor? I drop it into the sink. The cars are still there, this time closer. The honks persist, and I look out the window. Baba is waiting. That makes more sense. I grab my bag and take another sip of water, but I stop. Something smells wrong. My eyes shift to the stove and I see smoke rising from blackened bread. I guess no peanut butter today. Barely able to see through the smoke, I toss the bread into the trash and run towards the honking.

I’m still running, but I hear a whistle and stop in the middle of the driveway. Where’s it coming from? I turn back and the sound only gets louder and louder. It’s louder and louder. It’s louder and louder. It’s too much. I close my eyes and cover my ears, but the whistle travels.

Opening one eye, I see myself in the car with my dad. “Did you doze off?” he says loudly over the music on the radio. The song sounds familiar yet all I can make out is the whistling. I shut off the radio, but the whistling resonates. “I think so,” I mutter while staring at my reflection in the car mirror. It’s still blurry.

I look at the window and notice a crack that splits my reflection in two. My vision is still hazy, making the two halves seem like wisps drawn to one other. I turn back and see writing on the chalkboard. In big letters, it says MOVIE DAY. Before the lights are dimmed, I see a girl with a familiar face standing right outside the classroom. I wave and she looks me right in the eye but does nothing. The movie starts, and the noise distracts me for a second, but then I turn back and the girl is gone. Why didn’t she wave back?

The movie starts in a forest with a girl standing in the midst of trees that tower over her. My eyes start to feel heavy again. I walk over to sit in the shade of one of the trees. There is nothing but silence in the air. It’s interrupted by a rustling coming from the right. There is a shadow next to a tree, and as the figure gets closer to the light, I can see that it’s the girl from outside the classroom. However, she’s not alone. A girl next to her taps her on the shoulder and they walk back into the dark. The rustling stops, but the silence ends with a sharp ringing that makes everything tremble. I blink. It’s the bell.

Walking out of the classroom, I see those two girls again. They turn around to look at me, and when they realize that I’ve seen them, they stop talking. The girl on the right is the one from outside the classroom, and she’s familiar yet I can’t seem to put my finger on it. I hear another ring, but this one is closer, and I feel it on my leg. I reach into my pocket and find my phone. At first forgetting how to turn it on, I leave it on lockscreen. Wait, it’s that girl. The girl is in my lockscreen, and there we stand next to a tree that might as well have been 10x our size. I’m not sure why, but my eyes well up with tears. I shut off the phone and notice that there are now two cracks. I hope to see my reflection but instead see three wisps. They’re still blurry. My vision must be playing with me. I close my eyes.

“The next stop is Northern Boulevard.” I open my eyes, but a deep sleepiness weighs them down. I’m a stop too far. I leap out of the train as if the sleepiness is no longer there. And now a 15-minute walk back. The lights turn red and then green, and the little white man in the yellow box tells me to cross the street. With my eyes half closed, my legs carry me toward the street and past the curb. This isn’t the way home. I look up at a blue house, one that I’ve never seen before. It has a yellow doorknob and a sign that reads BEWARE OF IT. Beware of what? Before I can decide on going into the house, the door behind me closes.

I’m in a living room, one that’s almost identical to the one in my house. There’s a girl sitting on the carpet with her back turned to me. She’s playing with two little kids, but their faces are hidden behind her. She turns around to look at me, and I feel a strange urge to turn my head toward the door. I turn back and continue to play with my brother and sister. My brother tries to stand up but steps on a toy block. He screams in pain and I fear him falling but look down to see him safe in my arms. I hold out my hand and watch as my sister places the toy block on my palm. The block melts and turns into glass, but not just any glass. It is in four pieces. I close my eyes and shake my head. It’s getting worse.

There’s a loud honk and I open my eyes. I’m on the steps leading to the blue house, except something is missing: the sign. I walk up to grab the yellow doorknob. I reach out to grab— I’m on the steps leading to the blue house. I walk up to grab the yellow doorknob. I reach out to grab— I’m on the steps leading to the blue house. I walk up to grab the yellow doorknob. I reach out to grab— “Hey!” Still on the steps, I turn around and see a woman dressed in clothes from the 1930s.

We’re sitting on the steps. Wasn’t I just at the top of the stairs? “You’ve been trying to get inside for a while now,” she says. “But only the Whole are allowed, don’t you know?” I look up in confusion and ask, “Who are the Whole?” She looks at me as if I’ve said something alien. “What Whole?” she asks. “The Whole that you-”. There’s a loud honking. I turn my head. She’s gone, and I look up at the house, which is now red. I swear it was blue.

I feel the ring on my leg again. “Hello,” I say with my phone against my ear. My cousin needs me. But I’m tired. I turn back around the curb. You could go home. I’m standing at the bus stop. I get off the bus. My cousin’s house is just down the block, and as I walk, something seems off. On the block of brick houses, there is a speck of blue that stands out at the end of the block. I need to understand.

There on the blue house I see the yellow doorknob. The sign is back. I walk up the stairs and reach for the yellow doorknob. Twisting it, I see my cousin sitting on the couch with my nephew. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispers. My nephew is fast asleep in her arms. “Here,” she mouths as she carefully places the baby in my arms. I walk up the stairs to the baby’s room. The door has a window and a yellow doorknob. In the window I see five little wisps. As my fingers touch the doorknob, a flame covers the entire room. The only people left are a cloaked figure and me. “Who are you?” I say as my voice shakes. “Don’t you recognize me?” the cloaked figure shouts. The voice sounds familiar. The woman from the 1930s. “I thought I told you not to come here,” the cloaked figure says while removing a hood. “Who are you?” I ask with confidence. The figure turns around. Virgil, Dante’s guide.

“You aren’t ready,” Virgil says. “And when will I be?” I ask in a demanding manner. “When all wisps are together...” Virgil trails off as he finishes his sentence. I close my eyes and find myself at the bottom of the steps to the house. What wisps together? There’s another ring. A girl tells me that it’s getting late. Time to go home.

I place the landline on the table. She’s home. She walks into the dining room and glares at the six dishes on the table. I try to recognize her, but she notices me and turns her head. I feel that same urge to turn my head away, and the second I turn back, she’s gone. I close my eyes and find myself staring at the six dishes. There’s a plate at the edge of the table. Grabbing the plate with one hand, I use the other to grab the yellow ladle in the first blue dish. The blue house appears, but it soon fades and the dining room comes back into sight. When can I go back?

I sit down with my crowded plate and see that every seat around me is also taken. When has the dinner table ever been this full? I’m still thinking about the blue house when I feel a tap on my shoulder. “How was school?” someone asks. I tell them about my day, or at least the parts they would understand, and soon, I get lost in this story. Someone else shares a story and I feel the sides of my mouth curl up into a smile. The air is filled with laughter and everyone has lost track of time.

Seated at the table, my plate is now empty and strangely clear, except for five scratches. They appear small, but as I glance again, I see that the scratches extend across the entire plate, leaving six wisps that are close but still apart. The wisps...like the lady said? I turn the plate around. How do I make it Whole? I turn it again. This is pointless. I leave the plate in the sink.

I walk to my bed. It’s been a long day. On the nightstand are two pills: one for allergies and one for supplements. I’ve never been good at swallowing pills, and so it comes with a routine: first water, then the pill, and finally swallow; and repeat. I place the glass on the nightstand and sit on the bed, relieved with being done for the day.

It’s 80 degrees but I take out my warmest blanket and tuck myself in. A lot happened today, but it’s all a bit fuzzy. I remember making a peanut butter sandwich, but I also remember throwing away burnt bread. Was there smoke? I remember running in the driveway, but I also remember being in the car before running there. How did I get there? I remember the movie with the two girls near the trees, and those two girls were also standing outside my classroom. Were we friends? I remember the blue house, the identical rooms, and the flame. How could the woman from the house be Virgil? I remember the wisps in the mirror, the window, the phone, the glass block, and the plate. Why were there more each time? How could they be Whole? How do I get back to the blue house?

My eyes feel heavy, but then I remember dinner. I remember the stories, and I remember the laughs and smiles. I close my eyes and feel myself drifting, but I hear a familiar voice whispering my name. Virgil. It’s the blue house. “Why am I back?” I ask Virgil. “See for yourself,” he replies while pointing at the large object covered with red cloth. I take the red cloth off and see a mirror. It’s not blurry. “I know what you’re thinking,” says Virgil. “It’s not blurry.” “This is the first time in a long while that it’s been clear,” I say. “There’s one more thing,” Virgil replies, pointing to the backside of the mirror.

I walk to the back and see another mirror, and it isn’t just any mirror but one with wisps. I can see myself but with several wisps floating inside. I can see the girl running late for school and the girl in the car. I can see the girl with her friend in the phone lockscreen and the girl in the movie. I can see the girl who saves her brother from falling and the girl who takes care of her nephew. I can see the girls with responsibilities, but I can also see the girl from the dinner, the one who tells stories to get away from her life. My eyes well up with tears because I can see all those girls, and through them, I can see myself.

“How do I stay in the blue house?” I ask Virgil.

“Just close your eyes,” replies Virgil. “Close your eyes and drift.”