“That’s not what this means,” she said.

“Huh? What” he asked groggily. Did she speak or had he dreamed it?

“That’s not what any of this means,” she said firmly and loudly.

He rolled her over onto her back and peered at her face in the darkness, but there was a storm outside blocking any moonlight that could seep in between their curtains and the blackness of the room made it too hard to register her features. He turned a light on.

She was sleep talking again, and how this time was different than any other time was beyond him. It just was. She talked in her sleep regularly—at least once a week. He usually loved it. She made the most ridiculous proclamations, loud and proud, in her sleep, and never remembered what on earth she had been dreaming about when he told her about it the next day. There was that time that she turned to him and declared that something was “as cute as a box of babies!” and another time when she spoke in an old crone’s voice and half-whispered “the end is nigh, Abraham Lincoln,” but this, this wasn’t one of those things that he’d laugh about later. He could feel it reverberating in his bones. He could feel it climbing through his veins, making its way to his heart. This time was different.

Her body shimmered in the light, but she was dry to touch. Her skin was reddened and flushed, but cool to touch. Her eyes moved rapidly beneath their lids and he knew that he shouldn’t wake her. He knew she was deep in a REM cycle, but he was disturbed about the opposition of her own flesh. Her hair stuck to the crown of her head in what seemed like sweaty ringlets, but was silky and smooth when he placed his hand on her brow.

“That’s not what it means,” she repeated in a low, deep voice.

He was becoming alarmed. He couldn’t remember if it was okay to wake a sleep talker or not. He knew that a sleep walker shouldn’t be woken, but he didn’t know the protocol for sleep talkers. Why wasn’t there a rhyme or something to help him remember? He felt around for his phone so he could Google it, vainly hoping that the light from the screen, the movement of his body rocking the bed, and the soft yellow glow from the bedside lamp would be enough to wake her.

But before he had the chance to unlock the screen, her body started convulsing. He thought maybe she was having a seizure and rushed to put his hand in her mouth to keep her from biting off her tongue, but her mouth was relaxed and she looked serene from the neck up. He took his fingers out of her mouth and stared at her, hoping she would just wake up already.

“That’s not what it means,” she hissed.

He edged further away from her and cleared his throat. He said, “Not what what means?”

“Existence,” she growled.

Her head turned ever so slightly to face him in what looked like an uncomfortable and unnatural angle. He moved a fraction of an inch further away from her.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice trembling.

Her arms rose above her head and bent backwards in a way that he had only seen contortionists bend when they went to see Cirque du Soleil earlier that year. They made a sickening cracking sound.

“Please wake up,” he whimpered.

Her legs bent backwards in the same way that her arms did until she was standing on all fours but with her chest pointed upward. He closed his eyes and wished he was dreaming.

“Look at me,” the thing that used to be her said sweetly.

“No.”

“Look at me,” the thing that used to be her said savagely.

He looked.

Her eyes were still closed. She said, “That’s not what it means.”

He stood up at the edge of the bed and started crying. He said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Existence. We’re through.”

And then she just vanished. He collapsed against the wall, sobbing and hoping it was all a dream, but believing in his heart that it wasn’t.