In Two: The Fool

Chapter 1: Breath

I flick my lighter; it sparks.

Flick. Spark.

I flick it again, the flame roars to life.

I touch the flickering flame’s bluish heartbeat to the incense stick and watch as the ember catches. As smoke unfurls from it, I blow out the flame.

I exhale—and my room fades to black.

All that remains are spirals of incense smoke casting fractal patterns of light and shadow. Reality has become like the incense smoke—thin, shifting, impossible to hold. 

For a single, impossible second, the spiraling wisps circle me and coalesce into a perfect, unwavering circle, holding its shape against the laws of physics before dissolving.

I take a deep breath, and it feels like the particles that make up reality now breathe with me.

Deeper.

I hear a song begin to play inside me. Its chorus courses through my veins.

My breathing syncs to the sound—each inhale and exhale is a note. I ebb and flow with the peaks and valleys of this aethereal music.

When all the notes harmonize, I feel it—the universe is a song, and we are notes in it.

“Ring, ring.” 

The sound of my phone ringing cuts through the symphony.

The particles around me reconstruct the walls of my pod.

My arm feels heavy, as if trying to lift the emotional weight of this Great Depression. I look at my phone to see who called. “Unknown Number.”

They called at 3:33 p.m. No message left? It’s been twenty-two minutes. It’s always twenty-two minutes before something drags me back to the earthly realm—like I am tethered here by a cosmic leash.

Why is a force keeping me from exploring the other dimension?

I swear, if I could have even one more minute—I could find the answer I seek: Is this reality a simulation?

The loudspeaker in my pod then blares like it’s answering my unspoken question: “Attention residents: Please remain in your designated pods. Essential trips and services are scheduled. Remember: Compliance is survival.”

If it is… where is the back door? How do I rewrite the code?

My phone reverts to the lock screen. A picture of Cillian lights up the display, his cheeky smile so wide it crinkles his eyes. Those eyes form a spotlight, illuminating the reason I choose to come back.

I take a breath to steady myself, but the act of my lungs filling with air feels heavy, like the air is weighted with something unnatural.

Which reality is the true one?

My psychiatrist has a name for my experiences of becoming one with everything—“dissociation.” He says “The music is an auditory hallucination.” Are the most profound moments of my life really just a glitch in my brain’s wiring?

A sharp “Tick” of the kitchen clock reminds me of the time. It must be getting close to when Cillian’s preschool lets out.

I look back at my phone, and my eyes catch a news headline on the “For You” page. The headline seems to buzz with a strange energy: “Quantum Entanglement: Physics Prove Two Separate Things Can Still Be One.”

I click on it. The article reads: “When a particle is split in two, the halves remain a whole. This suggests our universe may be a holographic simulation.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. “Separate, yet still one.” … My recommendations are too specific to feel like mere synchronicity. 

My thoughts keep echoing back at me through technology. What force could be behind this?

My feet feel strangely weightless against the floorboards. I need to stay here for Cillian.

“Stay.” The word triggers a memory—my therapist’s voice reaches through the chaos of my mind with calm authority: “To stay in the present moment, use a grounding technique. Name something you see, something you hear, something you feel.”

I see the dreary, grey sky outside my window.

I hear a siren blaring on the street.

My external reality is painted with shades of melancholy, as if someone brought a painting of doom and gloom to life.

I shudder.

The pulse I feel in my wrist proves to me that I am solid. I am still here.

But these synchronicities are becoming too loud to ignore. It feels like the fabric of the world is starting to fray.

I can’t tell if it’s reality that’s tearing apart, or just my own mind. I see shapes form in shadows—in a world that doesn’t believe in perfect circles.