Impossible Dimensions

In the heavy darkness of my bedroom, I lie motionless, my back pressed into the coolness of the sheets, the fabric slightly damp with residual traces of my earlier sobs. 2:00 AM silence is thick around me, punctuated only by the wind. It strikes me as odd that an entire city manages to sleep while I can’t. How is that possible?

Beneath my fingertips, the duvet feels rougher than normal. I can sense every thread as its surface, crisp with dried liquid, scrapes my skin. I like it. It’s real. Substantial. Present. Like my buildings. I’ve always craved visceral, solid reality. Bricks and mortar. Steel and concrete.

The thought makes me shudder, sensing the exact opposite right beside me. The pillow next to mine is cold, untouched, its fabric smoothed. It’s empty. Hollow. It no longer carries the familiar warmth that I’ve grown accustomed to. His warmth. I turn to glance at that side of the bed, the starkness of his absence cutting me anew. The wound in my heart throbs, aching in rhythm with the pulse in my throat.

The air feels stale. Stagnant. It’s as if it too is in mourning, refusing to circulate, just lingering without his faded aftershave. Only the dying remnant of vanilla-scented candles meets my nostrils as I sniff. The darkness seems to close in around me, suffocating me, amplifying my isolation. I try to take a deep breath, to calm my nerves, but it catches halfway. Suddenly, I'm choking on the lump in my throat, eyes burning with the onset of fresh tears.

My gaze shifts to the moonlight that seeps through the half-open blinds, slicing the room into alternating slats of shadow and light. They fall over the dresser, glinting off the silver frame that holds a picture of us, a snapshot of a happier time. His eyes, even in the dim light, are twinkling with mirth. Mine mirror his joy. The cruel irony isn't lost on me⁠—those very eyes now haunt my sleepless nights.

Before I know it, my fingers are tracing the empty space beside me, a phantom touch, wishing for an impossible return. An ache expands in my chest, echoing the emptiness around me. I can't shake off the memories, the residual whispers of shared laughter, heated arguments, quiet conversations, and passionate lovemaking. I squeeze my eyes shut, attempting to push him out of my mind. I know even as I try that it’s useless. Just another wasted effort to add to my failed life.

Thoughts of death crawl into the forefront of my mind, unbidden yet seductive. I imagine the release it could bring, the quiet it would offer, the eternal sleep I long for. I flirt with the idea of a bottle of sleeping pills in my medicine cabinet, the sharp edge of the kitchen knife, the alluring height of my apartment balcony. I feel a perverse pleasure in these thoughts, the promise of oblivion they hold. It would be so much easier. Nearly effortless. An escape from this prison of my own mind.

Death feels right. It almost feels like it’s already happened. But… no. It hasn’t. Not yet. It couldn’t have. Because I’m still here. Still feeling. Still breathing. Still suffering.

Fuck.

My hand moves to my chest, fingertips pressing into the fabric of my nightgown, feeling the frantic, rabbitlike pace of my heart beneath. I’m consumed by a sadness so profound, a loneliness so crippling, that I wonder if my heart might just give up, making my decision for me. But it doesn't. It keeps beating.

I curse it.

Unable to bear the weight of my thoughts any longer, I rise, leaving the bed behind. The cold of the hardwood floor on my bare feet sends a shiver up my spine, but I welcome the chill. It’s a pleasant distraction from my inner turmoil. I walk over to my drafting table, scattered with crumpled sketches and discarded blueprints, the remnants of projects abandoned since he left. I should be using software, but I’ve always liked doing things the old-fashioned way. Paper and pencil. It’s real. Substantial. I’ve never felt very comfortable in the digital world.

A new idea begins to form in the dark corners of my mind, a design unlike anything I've ever conceived, a structure twisted and confounding. Something… impossible. A freakish building to match my freakish self. Something impractical. Irrational. A tangled design into which I can vent the snarl of emotions within me.

I reach out for a clean sheet of paper, nervously fingering my pencil. I hear the crinkle of paper as I pinch it between my fingers, the soft scraping sound as I drag it across the desk, and I smile, cracking the salty crust at the corners of my eyes. The act of situating the paper brings a strange sense of comfort. Maybe I can draw myself out of this despair, design an escape from reality. If I can’t find solace in reality, maybe I can find solace in the impossible. But even as I start sketching, I know I'm teetering on the edge. Life, death, sanity, madness⁠—they all hang in the balance, as fragile as the lines I'm drawing.

The silence that settles around me as I work begins to creep into my consciousness once again. It’s a bitter reminder of my loneliness, my perpetual existence. I’ve become an endless cycle of agonizing wakefulness and a yearning for a sleep that doesn't come. I live a life that feels more like a protracted death. Peace eludes me. Anxiety is now my only companion. Such a loyal companion…

…and I wish it would just go the fuck away.

But I shake away the bitter thoughts and focus my glazed eyes on my design. I’m an architect. If anything but death can rescue me from this life, it’s the act of creation. Right?

Right?

Right?

Desperate to be right, I sketch the foundations of my impossible building. As the sketch starts taking shape, as the lines on the paper twist and turn in impossible ways, I realize I'm already on a path far darker and deeper than I had ever imagined. This can’t happen. This building. It isn’t right, is it?

But amidst the chaos, there's a glimmer of hope. If everything that’s wrong can be poured onto the paper, then maybe I’ll be free. Right? So I continue to sketch this impossible, Escher-like structure. I pour all my despair, my loneliness, my pain into it. Each stroke on the paper is a desperate plea for release, a cry for salvation. And as the concept begins to take shape, a chilling realization seizes me⁠—I'm drawing a path towards a future, one that teeters on the precipice of madness, a reality as twisted as the structure taking form on my drafting table. But at least, for now, it's a distraction, a brief respite from the call of the void, the beckoning arms of oblivion.

***

I awaken.

At some point, I must have collapsed onto the drafting desk. The morning light creeps into my apartment, casting a soft, golden hue over the scattered remnants of a sleepless night. I'm at my drafting table, the pencil still in my hand, cheek pressed to the gridlines, drool pooled at the corner of my mouth. The sketch of the impossible structure lies before me, the harsh reality of its convoluted design inked into the crisp white paper.

My fingers trace the intertwined lines and edges of the impossible structure, the grooved whorls of my fingertips picking up the grainy texture of the graphite. Its metallic scent fills my nostrils, a sharp contrast to the warm, energizing aroma of coffee that wafts in from the neighboring apartments.

I rise from the chair, my body protesting hours of immobility in an awkward position, every joint popping and creaking in discordant harmony. The distant dimness of sleep deprivation is like a film over my consciousness, like I’m seeing the world through plastic wrap. The drumbeat of my throbbing headache serves to drive my body’s protests home. I move to the kitchen, the cool ceramic tiles beneath my feet a welcome change from the worn-out plastic chair mat beneath the drafting table.

The clap of the Keurig snapping shut breaks the still morning silence, my fingers working on their own, independent of my still foggy brain. The patter of slapping drops into my mug is rhythmic, almost soothing, and I find myself leaning into it, letting the familiar sound anchor me to the moment, grounding me in a reality that I hate more than anything except the alternative.

I pour myself a cup, the liquid black and scorching, a stark mirror to the emotions roiling inside me. I take a sip, letting the harsh, burnt bitterness jolt my senses awake with its familiar buzz.

I return to my work, sipping the hot, steaming brew as my eyes dance my impossible creation again. Its twisting stairs, implausible angles, and infinite loops embody my fractured psyche. I’ve created a labyrinthine monument to my inner turmoil. It shouldn’t be. Can’t be. Yet, it is.

Outside my window, the city begins to stir. The rhythmic hum of traffic weaves a discordant symphony with the chirping of birds, the world awakening to another day. It has joined me. A soft breeze flutters in, carrying the smell of rain-soaked earth and budding blossoms. It should smell good. Fresh. Why doesn’t it? Instead, it contains a hint of rottenness.

I shake the errant thought away. Everything is wrong with my brain, my senses. Why should my sense of smell be any different?

I return my senses to the drawing before me. With each minute that passes, the impossibility of the twisted structure becomes more prominent. But its wrongness feels strangely right. A sense of perverse satisfaction creeps into my bones.

As I ponder the bewildering creation before me, there's a knock at the door. It's unexpected, breaking the cocoon of solitude I've wrapped around myself. My heart leaps at the thought of who it could be, but it quickly sinks with the realization that it can't be him.

The door creaks open to reveal a man. He is cast in shadow, his silhouette stark against the brightness of the crispy hallway. A thrill of apprehension runs through me, a mix of intrigue and anxiety curling around my gut. He’s scary. And at the same time sexy. The universe, it seems, isn't done playing its game with me yet.

The mysterious man remains silent. The scent of burnt timber and old sawdust clings to him, filling my nostrils as I approach. I can't place it, but there's something raw and earthy about him that resonates deep within me. It’s not pleasant. Like everything else in my life these days, something about him just strikes me as… wrong.

"I hear you need a builder," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the silence of my apartment. It's intriguing, strangely intoxicating, like a melody you've heard in a dream but can't quite remember. It seems familiar, yet not.

For some reason, I let him inside. Do I even know him? Why am I doing this? But it’s like I’m in a dream, my body just acting of its own accord. Like it’s had enough of my sick brain and decided to simply do without it. I lead him to my drafting table, his heavy boots echoing off the hardwood floor until they scuff the plastic floor mat. His presence fills the room, casting a strange energy that disrupts the solitude I've become accustomed to. My heart pounds in my chest, the rhythm erratic like a wild drum echoing in the vast emptiness of my being. My rising anxiety doesn’t make any sense. But when does it ever?

He studies the plans, the rough etchings of my impossible structure. His fingers, calloused and stained, trace over the design, his touch almost reverent. His eyes, a deep, stormy gray, meet mine. Their spark of curiosity probably mirrors my own from earlier. A shiver runs down my spine at the intensity of his gaze, my skin prickling in response.

"This... is unique," he murmurs, his gaze flickering back to the design, his brows furrowed in deep thought. There's no judgment in his voice, no mockery. Just a raw curiosity that thrums with the promise of understanding.

"It's impossible," I reply, my voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile connection forming between us. He chuckles, a low, throaty sound that sends a flutter through my belly. His eyes meet mine again, a daring gleam in them.

"Nothing is impossible, Hannah," he says, his voice firm, almost commanding. There's a certain allure in his confidence, in the conviction of his words that ripples through the still air between us, electrifying it with the audacity of his claim.

Could he actually be right?

As he steps closer, his proximity overwhelms my senses. The scent of him⁠—the mix of stale sawdust, sweat, and something uniquely him⁠—fills my nostrils, and I feel an unexpected lurch in my stomach. It makes me afraid. And aroused. My heart flutters, the beating wild and unruly, a caged bird desperate for escape.

His gaze, still locked on mine, is unnerving yet thrilling. I feel seen, truly seen, for the first time since my life started unraveling. Does he know how fucked up I am? Does he care? Does he like it? It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once. An inexplicable connection weaves between us, magnetic and undeniable.

As the day progresses, we work together. We discuss things. The impossible design takes on a life of its own. An inexplicable bond begins to form between us, something raw and untamed. I am drawn to him, this strange, sexy builder, like a moth to flame. But there's something that nags at the back of my mind, an unsettling feeling that something is amiss.

His presence, while comforting, sends a chill down my spine. He seems to know what to do. He seems to know how to proceed. The way he seems to understand the impossible structure, how he looks at me with those stormy eyes, everything screams “wrong”, but I can't seem to pull away. As the sun dips below the horizon, casting long, eerie shadows through my apartment, I'm left with a sense of unease. I am falling, spiraling down a path from which there is no return. For a moment, strange images flicker through my sight. They show slashes. Blood. I feel dizzy. Weightless. Just for a moment.

Then, I snap back to reality. Strange, the things that sleep deprivation can do.

***

As the days tick by, my thoughts, previously preoccupied with death, are now dominated by him. The impossible structure, once a symbol of my despair, now bears a semblance of hope, a lifeline. But there's something unsettling about it, about him, a puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit.

As I bid him goodbye, the anxiety lingers, a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. As the door closes behind him, I am left alone with the echo of his laughter and the ghost of his touch. I try to shake off the feeling, to focus on the promise of the impossible structure. But as the night encroaches, I find myself sinking deeper into a reality I no longer understand, a reality where the lines between the possible and the impossible blur, where desire and dread dance hand in hand.

Each day is now filled with anticipation and fear. The rhythm of my life syncs with the arrival of the builder, a heartbeat thudding against the quiet stillness of my loneliness. His presence fills my apartment, fills my senses, in a way that is both unsettling and utterly mesmerizing.

His eyes, dark under the harsh work-site lights, hold an intensity that seems to peel back the layers of my soul. His touch, rough and calloused from handling the raw materials of the impossible structure, sends a jolt through me each time our fingers accidentally brush. His scent lingers in the air long after he leaves, a haunting, smoldering perfume that stirs a deep yearning within me.

The barren construction site buzzes with energy, a stark contrast to the desolation that had once ruled my life. The clang of metal against metal, the rhythmic hum of machinery, the rough chatter of the workers - it all forms a symphony of creation, a testament to the birth of my impossible design.

As the impossible structure starts to take form, so does my obsession with him. I find myself longing for his presence, for the warm rumble of his voice, for the thrilling chill his proximity sends down my spine. Every night is filled with dreams of him, each one more vivid, more real than the last. I yearn for him, crave him, in a way that is terrifyingly consuming. He gives me the creeps. So why am I drawn to him so?

Day after day, I watch as he molds my chaotic thoughts into tangible form, bringing the impossible structure to life. There's a surreal beauty in watching him work, in the way his dark muscles strain under his sweat-soaked shirt, the way his brow furrows in concentration, the way his cracked lips part slightly as he studies the design.

Each beam he places, each brick he lays, fuels my desire for him. The way he understands my broken mind's creation, the way he breathes life into it, only makes me more attracted to him. His confidence, his audacity, his unwavering faith in the impossible - it's like a siren's call, drawing me deeper into the abyss.

But as the impossible structure nears completion, so does my anxiety. The realization that something is wrong is a siren in my brain, blaring its warnings at me. The air around the building is charged with an eerie energy, the walls echo with whispers that unsettle me, the ground around it is dusty, dry, cracked. I try to dismiss these feelings, attributing them to stress or fear, but the sense of dread is a nagging thorn that refuses to be ignored.

There's something wrong with him too, something lurking just beneath his charismatic facade. His gaze is too intense, his touch too lingering, his understanding of the impossible structure too profound. It's like he knows something I don't, a secret about my own creation that he's not ready to reveal.

Then, it’s finally done.

I can't tear my eyes away from the impossible structure, can't pull my heart away from him. The once-comforting cacophony of the construction site now rings hollow, a chilling symphony that signals the advent of my inevitable descent. My heart pounds against my ribcage, a frantic beat that matches the turmoil within me.

As I step into the nearly complete structure, a chill runs down my spine. It's all wrong, too cold, too alien. The walls close in on me, the angles skew and warp, the staircases twist and turn into impossible loops. The air is heavy, the silence deafening. I feel lost, disoriented, a feeling that grows with each step I take. As I ascend the stairs, they loop back on themselves, and I’m somehow back where I started.

Yet, amidst the chaos and fear, my obsession with him remains, a beacon of twisted comfort. He's my lifeline in this nightmarish reality, the only anchor holding me steady in the swirling tempest. My heart yearns for him, my body aches for his touch, even as my mind screams for escape.

Then, suddenly, the builder is there, on the steps, a shadowy figure in the eerie stillness. My heart races as I walk towards him, the sound echoing in the cavernous space. His stormy eyes are all I can see in the dimness, their intensity amplified in the surrounding darkness.

I stop before him, his familiar scent of stale wood and sweat enveloping me. I raise a trembling hand to his face, the contours so familiar under my fingers. It dawns on me then⁠—he looks like my ex-boyfriend. Just like him. It’s as if I’m looking into a mirror that reflects a past I’ve been running from.

How have I never noticed this before?

The realization is as startling as it is horrifying, a gut-wrenching punch that leaves me breathless. And yet, the desire that has consumed me overcomes the shock. He’s back. It must be him. Right?

My fingers slither through his hair, pulling him closer. As I lean in to kiss him, my heart throbbing with need in my chest, the firmness of his chest, the fullness of his hair, seem to evaporate. His dark form becomes wispy, and he dissolves into smoke.

I was so close. To having him back. Why did he leave again? Why does he always leave me?

His scent fades away, leaving me alone in the disturbing silence of the impossible building. The air around me turns cold, a profound emptiness spreading through the structure. As I stand there, enveloped in chilling silence, images flicker at the edges of my consciousness once again. Slit wrists, crimson blood, fading consciousness⁠—the images flash past like a slideshow. This time, though, I recognize them. They are fragments of a past I've tried to bury deep within me. The sting of betrayal, the searing pain, the cold numbness⁠—they all come rushing back, as real as the day they happened.

My knees buckle and I stumble, catching myself on the edge of a staircase that spirals upwards into the shadowy heights of the building. Desperate and panicking, I find a surge of energy and rise once again. I start ascending, the stairway looping in impossible twists and turns, the boundaries between up and down blurring. I keep climbing⁠—or maybe descending?--but never reach the top or bottom.

Then, I drop once again, clawing at my temples. The flashes⁠—memories⁠—grow more intense, the pain more vivid, until they coalesce into something that I understand. At long last. The night, the razor blade, the stillness, the dizziness, the weightlessness⁠—they wash over me in a tsunami wave, leaving me gasping for air.

I know why I’m here.

I know who the builder is.

I know why I can’t have him.

I know why these stairs will never end.

I look up—down?—at the endlessness of the staircase. Stairs that will never lead anywhere but more darkness. And I hear his echoing laughter. Like his but not. Taunting. Evil.

I’m an architect. I design. Create. It’s what I do. When I died that night, I became the architect of my own afterlife.

3,788 words