The room doesn’t stop.

Here is a story that doesn’t pretend there’s an end.

It doesn’t wrap anything up, because some things don’t.

It just keeps going, like I asked back then, when I wrote it.

Pulled from the archives.

-

There is a room that keeps changing shape.

It’s not metaphorical—it literally shifts. Walls move in closer, then pull back like breath. The floor sometimes tilts, sometimes vanishes for seconds at a time. The lighting isn’t broken, but it’s unreliable. Sometimes it hums. Sometimes it glares. Sometimes it just disappears.

You live in the room.

You didn’t choose to. You woke up here.

There was a time you thought you’d leave—but not anymore.

Now, you’re just trying to move through it without vanishing.

There’s another person in the room.

Sometimes close. Sometimes far.

Sometimes curled in a corner, silent and scared.

Sometimes loud, pacing, making declarations as if they’ve just invented time.

Sometimes looking right at you and saying:

“Help me.”

And you tried.

You pulled them out of collapsed places.

You used your own skin as insulation.

You held both of you through storms that didn’t belong to you.

You mapped escape routes. You redrew the floorplan. You found water when there was none.

And still—still—when they panicked or broke or forgot themselves, they said:

“Why did you do this to me?”

And it never made sense. But it landed.

Each time, it carved something out of you.

You didn’t collapse, but you shrank.

You didn’t disappear, but you bent.

And now, you know more.

You know the shape of your own hands.

You know where your walls are.

You know the places where the room lies to you.

You know that you won’t be thanked. You won’t be rescued.

You know that the room keeps changing—and you do too.

Some days, your only goal is to survive the reshaping without forgetting who you are.

Some days, you leave messages on the walls, just in case another version of you finds them later.

“You made it through this one. Keep walking.”

“Don’t believe the echo. You’re real.”

“He’s not your gravity.”

And the other person?

They keep cycling. Sometimes clearer. Sometimes not.

Sometimes almost able to hold themselves—and sometimes turning toward you just long enough to fall again.

You don’t hate them. You never did.

But you stopped offering yourself as a surface to collapse against.

You started saying “no” with your whole body.

And some nights, that’s all that keeps you from vanishing.

The room doesn’t stop.

It keeps shifting.

But now—you do too.

Not to adapt.

Not to blend.

Just to stay whole while still moving.

And that’s the story.

It doesn’t end.

But you’re still in it.

And you haven’t disappeared.

Not even once.