Circle

“I don’t …”

His voice trembled, fragile as glass on the verge of breaking.

He stood alone in a long white hallway that stretched impossibly far in both directions, so uniform and clean it seemed less like a place and more like an idea. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic. The walls had no seams, no corners, no imperfections–only endless white. A white that seemed meant only for pencil marks—words not yet written. At the very end stood a single blue door. It was the only color in the world. He swallowed, his throat tight, tears slipping down his face.

“...I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

The words drifted forward and disappeared. And then - Tick. He froze. The sound was sharp. Mechanical. Unforgiving. Tick. It came from nowhere and everywhere at once, echoing through the sterile corridor. Tick. A clock. But there was no clock on the walls. No watch on his wrist. Still, it counted. Steady. Patient. Starving to steal. His breathing quickened. He didn’t know why, but he understood what it meant. He didn’t have forever. The key. Where was the key to unlocking himself from fear? The blue door waited at the end of the hall, silent and knowing. He ran. His footsteps cracked violently against the white floor, his arms pumping, his chest burning as panic coiled tighter around his lungs.

Tick. The door grew closer. Tick. His hand collided with the handle, ice-cold beneath his palm. He twisted it open and stumbled through. White hallway. Identical. Same endless white. Same distant hum. Same—blue door. Far away. Waiting. Tick. His stomach dropped. He spun around. Behind him was only a blank wall. No door. No escape.

“ No…” He whispered.

Tick. Louder now. Closer. He ran again. Faster. Suddenly, another sound joined in. One that gave him hope so deep he could feel it in the very depths of his stomach. The sound of a key jingling among others. Desperation sharpened his movements, his shoes slamming harder, his breath tearing itself from his chest as if he were outrunning something just behind him. He reached the next blue door and threw it open.

White hallway. Blue door. Tick. His pulse synchronized with it. He ran again. Door after door after door. Each one opened into the same endless corridor. Each one reset the distance. Each one stole another piece of him. The sound of the key getting louder. Tick. Sweat dripped into his eyes. Tick.

Only raging in the opposing direction of his speed, a small key hanging by a string from his pocket was being ripped backward by the hands of turbulence. The faster he ran, the stronger the tug from its hands became.

His lungs screamed. His breathing barreled through, sounding as if he were struggling to capture oxygen in his newly found grave. Tick. He imagined something terrible would happen when the ticking stopped. Something final. Something irreversible.

“I’m trying!” he screamed into the emptiness.

The hallway did not respond. It only counted. It did not have the time nor care to slow because of his pathetic state. Tick. He slammed through another door. White hallway. Blue door. Waiting. Always waiting. His legs weakened. His sprint collapsed into a stagger. His breaths came in broken gasps. The tickling grew louder—not faster, but heavier, like a closing fist.

Tick. He fell to his knees.

“I don’t understand…” he whispered.

His hands trembled against the floor. Tick. He forced himself up again, stumbling forward, refusing to stop. Stopping felt like death. There had to be a way. A path outside of this insane centripetal state. Halfway down the corridor—something brushed against his leg. A faint metallic tap. He froze. Tick. It brushed him again. Tap. He looked down slowly. Dangling from his belt loop—a small sliver key. It swayed gently.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

His mind struggled to accept—to understand the madness. His hand rose, shaking violently, and grasped the key between his fingers. Cold. Real. It had been there. The entire time. But he had known that. His chest tightened—not with fear but with something heavier. As much as he had longed to find the sky, this was not the key he desired. He knew this was not the key he wanted. The key was still out there somewhere. His eyes lingered on the key for a long moment. Idled with disgust, hate, bitterness, because whose sick joke was it to attach an unwanted key to someone? He scoffed before throwing the key aside and to the floor as if it were unwanted junk.

Pushing himself back up by his knuckles, he began again. The long chase. The key lay on the floor like something he refused to remember. Still, it always loomed in the very crevices of the deepest depths of the consciousness. Holding the majority of answers but inaccessible. His figure began to become a blur.

A long trail tiiiiiiiick-tock sounded off, and that was when it happened. The very walls of the place betrayed themselves, and their counterparts decided to divulge inward. The floor beneath devoured itself, along the door. The key rocked a little before it disappeared.

Somewhere in the heart of the place. Not lost due to time, but rather lost because of the failure of acknowledgement.