But he wasn't looking at me.
Confused, I frantically glance at my surroundings.
But my burned eyes can no longer see color.
Are there others in this room? Are they talking?
Or are they simply poems on flat sheets of paper,
The sound of frantic scrawling playing tricks on my ears?
The room begins to crinkle.
Closing in on me.
The air I breathe dissipate before it reaches my lungs.
I panic. There must be a way out.
It's right there. He's right there.

Swallowing my fears, I brandish my pen.