The platform beneath me vibrates slightly as I’m slid into the capsule. The soft hum of machinery fills the air, steady and unchanging. The smooth, curved walls close in just inches from my face—a confined tunnel. I inhale sharply, my breath misting against the cold air that seeps from the chamber. This is it. I’m being sealed away, locked in suspension while the world outside moves on without me. All I can do is think. And my thoughts take me on a journey more intense than the one I’m really on.
I shiver, despite the warm blanket draped over me. The fear creeps in before I can stop it. It’s irrational, I know, but that doesn’t matter. The thought tightens around my chest: what if the walls cave in? What if this chamber is a coffin instead of a stasis pod? I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on the steady thumping from the control panel outside, where the technicians monitor the process. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m sinking, being pulled deeper into something I can’t see.
The platform stops moving. Or at least, I think it does. But the sensation continues—a slow, unending drift downward, like I’m falling without ever hitting the bottom. My body stays still, but my mind insists otherwise. It’s a trick, a misfire in my brain, but knowing that doesn’t help. The capsule tightens around me even more.
Breathe. Relax. Sleep. That’s what they told me to do. But I can’t. The fear tightens around my throat, whispering questions I can’t ignore. What if I never wake up? What if they forget I’m in here? What if I stay trapped, my breath fogging against the glass, until the oxygen runs out? What if the world outside moves on without me, and I drift endlessly in nothingness?
I clench my hands into fists, willing the thoughts away, but the silence only makes them louder. Outside, there’s no sound except for the pounding of the machine. The cold air nips at my skin, a reminder of how small and fragile I am inside this thing. I try again to sleep, but my inner thoughts keep spiraling in my head.
Then, a hiss. The calibration cycle starts. The edges of my mind blur as the sedative does its job. As the world fades, I wonder—when I wake, if I wake, will anyone be there to let me out?
I’m pleasantly surprised that I wake.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in here when a calm voice tells me it’s over. The words feel distant, muffled, like they’re coming from a distant transmission. My limbs are heavy, but I hear them.
“Take your time,” the voice says. “Your body needs a moment to catch up.”
The sensation I felt before, the endless pull downward, is reversing. I feel like I’m emerging from something thick and unseen. My body is sluggish, my mind foggy, like I’ve been sleeping for years. Maybe I have been. It was supposed to feel like minutes. Instead, it feels like an eternity. And I have no way of knowing which is true.
The capsule slides open. Figures in scrubs stand over me, their faces calm and detached. I try to sit up, but my body betrays me. The person helping me isn’t the one who sealed me in. How could it be? If I’ve truly been moving all this time, I can’t possibly be where I started.
The confidence I grasp at is flimsy, slipping between my fingers. My legs wobble, my head spins. A steady hand catches me.
“Sit back down. Let yourself adjust,” the voice says, firm but patient. “You’ll be okay soon.”
I sink back onto the platform, my heart pounding. The world around me is unfamiliar, but one thing is clear—I’ve been gone a long time. Longer than I initially anticipated. This phase of the journey is over, but I’m only just beginning to understand what that means.
Then, as the last traces of haze lift, I notice the sterile scent of antiseptic filling my lungs. A flicker of fluorescent light cuts through the fog. A sharp click. A slow, deliberate motion.
The MRI is done. The scan is complete. I wait impatiently for the results.