Rob Jones dreamed in twos.
Two cupcakes.
Two hands.
Two voices speaking at once, overlapping like bad radio signals that somehow still felt familiar.
He sat at a long table that stretched farther than his eyes could follow, white and spotless, like it had been scrubbed by something obsessive. The room around him didn't have walls so much as suggestions of walls—bright, soft, comforting. The kind of place you'd design if you wanted someone to stop asking questions.
In front of him was a plate.
On it: two cupcakes.
Pink frosting. Perfect swirls. Little sugar stars sprinkled on top.
Rob picked one up. It was warm. Comfortingly warm, like it had just come out of an oven that loved him.
"Go on," a voice said. Friendly. Familiar. It sounded like someone who had always been there.
"Eat. You're doing great."
Rob smiled. He felt calm. Safe. His head was quiet in the way it only ever was when the world stopped pushing back.
He bit into the cupcake.
Sweet. Soft. Exactly right.
Another voice chimed in, overlapping the first. "See? Nothing is wrong. Nothing was ever wrong."
Rob nodded to no one in particular and picked up the second cupcake. He always ate them in pairs. That was important. Pairs meant balance.
As he chewed, the frosting shifted.
Not suddenly. Not enough to alarm him.
Pink deepened into red—rich, glossy, almost luxurious. Like velvet.
"That's fine," the voices said quickly, before he could even think to question it.
"Red is just another color. You like red."
Rob did like red. He wasn't sure why, but the certainty felt good.
He licked frosting from his thumb.
It tasted… thicker now. Less sweet. More filling.
The cake beneath it changed too. The crumb turned denser, heavier, like paste pressed into the shape of food.
Rob paused.
Just for a second.
"Keep eating," the voices urged, a little louder now, a little closer.
"You're safe. You're safe. You're safe."
The table stretched longer. The room brightened, as if light itself leaned in to watch.
Rob took another bite.
The texture changed again.
Something resisted his teeth.
A soft pop.
Then a wet give.
He looked down.
The cupcake stared back at him.
An eye blinked slowly from the frosting.
Rob froze.
For the first time in the dream, the voices hesitated.
Then, all at once, they spoke over each other, urgent now.
"Don't stop."
"It's normal."
"You need this."
"You're still hungry."
"Everyone eats."
"Everyone eats."
"Everyone—"
The cupcakes were no longer cupcakes.
They were… pieces.
Hands. Faces. Familiar shapes pressed into something that wanted to be food.
The table wasn't white anymore.
It was stained.
Red frosting dripped down Rob's fingers, warm and sticky. The eye in his hand rolled, looking at him with recognition.
"Rob," it said, in a voice that sounded like a friend.
His stomach twisted.
For the first time, something broke through the calm.
A memory.
A city in ruins.
Hunger that never ended.
A smile stretched too wide on his own face reflected in broken glass.
"Stop," Rob whispered.
The room darkened.
The voices turned sharp, panicked.
"No, no, no—"
"Eat!"
"Don't wake up!"
"You're safe here!"
"Don't go back!"
The cupcake screamed.
Rob screamed with it—
—and woke up.
Rob Jones lay staring at the ceiling of his apartment, breath shallow, eyes wide and unfocused.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe properly.
The ceiling fan spun lazily above him, clicking once every rotation because he kept forgetting to fix it. Morning light filtered in through half-open blinds, painting familiar lines across peeling paint.
Normal.
This was normal.
The dream clung to him like cold syrup, heavy and slow to slide off. He could still feel the frosting on his fingers. Could still hear the voices scrambling to keep him asleep.
Rob swallowed.
"…Wow," he murmured hoarsely. "That was… gross."
His heart was still racing, but his face relaxed into a small, lopsided smile.
"Well," he said to the empty room, voice brightening like he was talking himself into believing it, "good morning to me."
He pushed himself up into a sitting position. The room swayed slightly, but he waited it out. He'd learned how to do that. Let the world catch up instead of fighting it.
The nightmare receded, leaving behind impressions instead of images.
Hunger.
Guilt.
A strange, hollow nostalgia.
Rob swung his legs off the bed and stood.
His apartment was small—cheap, barely maintained, and cluttered in the way only a teenager's place could be. Clothes lay in drifts on the floor. Empty snack wrappers formed little constellations near the couch. The sink was full of dishes he absolutely was not going to think about right now.
Normally, that might've bothered him.
Today?
He shrugged.
"I'll clean later," Rob said cheerfully. "Later-me can deal with it."
He headed straight for the bathroom.
The mirror caught him as he passed, and he paused just long enough to register his reflection.
He looked… tired.
Not sick. Not injured.
Just tired in a way sleep didn't fix.
His eyes were a little too sharp for his age. Like they'd seen something they weren't done processing.
Rob smiled at himself anyway, practiced and automatic.
"Still you," he said. "Still here."
The shower helped.
Hot water beat down on his shoulders, steam fogging up the tiny bathroom until the world shrank to heat and sound and sensation. Rob stood there longer than necessary, letting it ground him, letting it wash away the last sticky remnants of the dream.
He closed his eyes.
No cupcakes.
No voices.
Just water.
When he stepped out, towel around his waist, he felt lighter. Not healed—he wasn't naive enough to think it worked that fast—but… steadier.
He got dressed in his usual clothes: hoodie, jeans, worn sneakers. Comfortable. Familiar. Armor, in their own way.
As he grabbed his backpack, he caught himself humming.
The sound surprised him.
He paused, then laughed softly.
"Guess I'm in a good mood," he said. "Weird."
It was weird.
But also—
Nice.
He slung the backpack over his shoulder and headed out.
School was… loud.
Not just in sound, but in presence.
Hallways packed with people. Voices overlapping. Lockers slamming. Laughter, shouting, arguments, life in all its messy abundance.
The moment Rob stepped through the doors, it hit him like a wave.
His vision dimmed at the edges.
His knees buckled slightly.
Too many people.
Too many heartbeats.
Too many living things all at once.
For a split second—just a split second—his brain tried to reconcile it with another memory.
A world where crowds meant food.
Where noise meant survival.
Where living things were counted in bites.
Rob's breath hitched.
His fingers dug into the straps of his backpack.
"Okay," he whispered to himself, upbeat but strained. "Okay, okay, okay. That's new. That's fine. We're fine."
He took a step forward.
Then another.
His vision swam. Sweat prickled at his temples. Every sound felt too sharp, too close.
Someone brushed past him and his stomach flipped violently.
He stopped walking.
Don't panic.
You're safe.
You're back.
The words echoed—but this time, they were his.
Rob swayed.
"Whoa—"
His knees threatened to give out completely.
Then—
A hand clamped onto his shoulder.
Firm. Solid. Real.
Rob flinched—but didn't turn.
He knew that grip.
"Hey," a familiar voice said, close and worried. "You good, man?"
Another presence moved to his other side.
"You look like you're about to faceplant," someone else added. "Again."
Rob let out a shaky laugh.
"…Yeah," he said. "That would be embarrassing."
Hands steadied him. Guided him toward the wall. Someone took his backpack before it could slip.
He finally turned his head.
His friends.
All there.
Real.
Alive.
Concern written plainly on their faces.
The pressure in his chest eased, just a little.
"You just… zoned out," one of them said gently. "Happens sometimes, right?"
Rob nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it does."
He straightened slowly, leaning on the wall until his legs stopped trembling.
"Sorry," he said automatically.
One of them snorted. "For what? Being human?"
Rob hesitated at that.
Then smiled—small, but genuine.
"Guess I'm relearning that," he said.
They didn't push. Didn't ask questions he wasn't ready to answer.
They just stayed.
Talked about class. About stupid homework. About nothing important and everything grounding.
As the bell rang and the crowd shifted, Rob felt something settle into place.
Not innocence.
That was gone.
But something else.
Connection.
Belonging.
A reason to keep going forward instead of looking back.
As they walked together down the hall, Rob glanced around at the living, breathing world and felt a strange mix of awe and grief.
My time back, he thought.
And this time—
He intended to live it.