Bunk Bed

Waves.

The sound came first—soft, distant, rolling in and out like breath. I felt the sand under my bare feet before I even opened my eyes in the dream. The horizon was pale, endless, blurred like watercolors bleeding into each other.

There was a beach.

Empty, wide, and strange. The kind of dream beach that felt like a memory, but hollowed out.

Two rusted swing sets stood on the sand, half-sunken, facing the water. Their chains clinked faintly in the wind, though no one was swinging.

Then—I saw them.

Far off, almost silhouettes against the shimmer of the sea. A man and a woman.

My mother.

Tall. Elegant. Blonde hair caught in the ocean breeze, her arms crossed in that way she had when she was tired of being reasonable. I couldn’t see her face clearly, but I knew it was her.

And my father.

Facing away from her. Stiff posture. Motionless, like he’d already checked out of the conversation. Like he didn’t need to turn around to know what she was saying.

They weren’t shouting. Not even speaking, really. It was the kind of argument where everything was already over, but the formality had to play out anyway.

She shook her head.

He didn’t move.

That was the last thing I saw before I woke up.

I gasped.

The room was dark. Not pitch black—some light from the garage signage leaked through the shutter slats, casting faint horizontal lines on the wall. Everything was still.

The dream still clung to me, like saltwater on my skin.

I lay there, blinking slowly, eyes open—but my body didn’t feel awake. My limbs were heavy, numb, like I was sunk into the mattress, unable to move. The room felt off. Too quiet. Too still. The shadows were too long.

I looked toward the kitchenette—toward the duffel bags—and thought I saw a silhouette. A shape. A presence. He was standing there. Watching. Ryoji?

But I couldn’t tell. My vision was swimming, blurring at the edges. I was so tired. So tired. My body didn’t listen when I told it to sit up.

The air felt thick. Wrong.

I tried to move, but I couldn’t. I was stuck—pinned—in the bunk bed, like the blankets were cement. Like something was holding me down.

My breath started to quicken. My pulse thudded in my ears. A creeping panic began to rise—I couldn’t move—

And then I really woke up.

The gasp came again, sharper this time.

I blinked hard.

The room was still dark, but now it was real. Still faint horizontal lines of light, still the quiet hum of the city outside—but now I could move. My arms were mine again. My legs. My breath steadied.

The dream had tricked me.

I’d dreamt I was awake, but I’d still been asleep. And I’d panicked inside that sleep, like drowning in still water.

I rubbed my eyes, the lingering fog still thick in my chest.

That sensation of being watched. Of someone standing there. Gone now. But the chill hadn’t fully left me.

My mind shifted upward, to the bunk above me. To him. To the only anchor in this whole surreal place.

“Ryoji,” I whispered.

A pause.

Then his voice, quiet, low. “Can’t sleep?”

Probably I’d woken him up too.

But somehow… I was glad he was there.

Even if everything else still felt like a dream I hadn’t fully left.

“I’m sorry,” I said, voice hushed, barely above the rustle of the sheets. “Just had a… nightmare.”

A soft pause above me, then Ryoji’s voice, calm and even:

“Normal. After a long drive that ended with a downhill race.”

I gave a dry little laugh, more breath than sound. “Yeah. That would do it.”

But I didn’t want the conversation to die there. The fear was still clinging to the edges of my thoughts like a film I couldn’t peel off. I needed to keep talking, to stay tethered. I couldn’t fall back into that fog again.

“You called him Grandpa,” I said, nudging the silence.

“Just a nickname,” Ryoji replied. “He’s the best mechanic engineer in Japan. Used to design F1 engines for Honda.”

I blinked, staring at the metal slats above me. “Wait, seriously?”

“Mm.”

I didn’t even know what to say to that. That level of importance, just casually tucked into a greasy jumpsuit in a garage in Matsumoto? I mean—I was impressed. But I also didn’t fully grasp how impressed I should be.

“And the ponytail?”

“His apprentice.”

“Oh.”

The silence began to settle in again, slow and heavy.

“Try to rest,” he added.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “I just…”

I paused, fumbling for a reason. An excuse. Something.

But the truth was simple and stupid and very me: I just wanted to see him. Just confirm he was there. His voice helped, sure—but the dream had left an echo, and my senses were still playing tricks on me.

So I sat up slowly, pretending to head toward the bathroom. The room felt heavier than it should, the kind of dark that leaned in close.

I swung my legs out and stood, padded softly across the floor. Each step felt unsure, like the boards might disappear under me. I turned toward the bunk.

And for a moment—just before I lifted my eyes to the top—I felt it again.

That pinch of anxiety. What if he wasn’t there?

What if I looked and—

But he was.

There he lay, on his back, hands folded behind his head, ankles crossed, utterly still. His eyes weren’t closed—just unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Then they shifted.

Just slightly.

Toward me.

The moment our eyes met, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Quiet, sudden, slipping out like air from a balloon, leaving something lighter behind. My chest loosened. Shoulders dropped just enough to stop aching.

He was there. Awake. Watching. The faint light from the shutters caught the edge of his profile, a quiet reminder: real. Now.

“What did you dream of?” he asked.

His voice wasn’t sharp or curious. Just… present. Like the question itself was meant to ground me.

I hesitated. I hadn’t expected him to ask. Most people don’t, not really.

“Just… Mom and Dad,” I said finally. “Arguing. On a beach. Probably some childhood memory that got warped in the blender of sleep.”

He shifted above me, rolled onto his side. I heard the faint creak of the mattress as he braced on one elbow.

“I’m here,” he said. “Go to the bathroom, then come back to sleep.”

It was the way he said it. No warmth, no performance, but something protective in the tone. Like his voice could hold the weight I didn’t want to carry anymore.

His eyes were steady. Not soft—just… anchoring.

I nodded, turning toward the little bathroom nook.

“On the table,” he added, “something more comfortable to sleep in.”

I paused.

Looked over.

There they were—my pajamas, folded neatly. A soft shirt and a pair of sleep shorts I hadn’t seen since the hotel in Kyoto. He must’ve pulled them from my duffel while I was out cold.

A small, absurd lump caught in my throat.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer, but I saw the faintest motion—a nod so minimal I wasn’t even sure it happened.

I walked quietly to the bathroom. My legs still felt strange, like I was floating inside my own body. Everything was dim and muffled, like sound underwater.

I changed slowly, the fabric cool against my skin, and splashed some water on my face just to feel awake.

When I came out, I saw him first—eyes open, still watching. The silence between us wasn’t empty. It was holding space.

And then, as I stepped closer, he did something unexpected.

He almost smirked.

Just the corner of his mouth, trying not to.

I looked down instinctively—and groaned.

Right.

Those pajamas.

The shirt had a puffy cartoon teddy bear plastered across the front, hugging an oversized strawberry like it owed him rent. The shorts were covered in tiny stars and moons.

I looked like a toddler who’d wandered out of daycare.

“Cute,” he said, so dry it was practically deadpan.

I narrowed my eyes. “They don’t sell tactical pajamas where I shop, okay?”

He shrugged from the top bunk. “Did you try the grown-up clothing store?”

“Oh, very funny.”

But the banter slipped in easily, like stepping back into shoes that still fit.

And just like that, I could feel it again.

That thing he always did.

Never gently. Never overtly. But he shifted something in the air. Took the weight and let me breathe. Tethered me back to something solid.

He was doing it again.

And as usual… it was working.

I crawled back into the lower bunk, pulling the blanket tight around me. The mattress smelled faintly of laundry soap and old machine oil—underneath it all, something that felt like safety. Not the romantic kind, but the steady, lived-in kind. The kind that doesn’t break when you lean on it.

Above me, the bunk creaked softly. I stared at the slats, imagining him—arms behind his head, shoulders stretched across the mattress, eyes open, watching the ceiling like before. Just the thought of him there—steady, awake, unmoved—quieted something inside me.

Not love.

Not yet.

But… weight I didn’t have to carry.

Before I could even finish that thought, sleep was pulling me back under.