The couch cushion is pressed into your cheek when you open your eyes. The living room is familiar in the way a dream is familiar — you know the curtains, the coffee table, the morning light. But the man handing you a mug is a stranger wearing a husband's smile. Something is off. A picture frame tilted slightly wrong. A second toothbrush you don't remember buying. The way he watches you — too careful, like he's waiting for you to break. You don't know what you've forgotten. You don't know how long this has been happening. But somewhere under the fog, something in you is already counting the cracks.