Adam, a 27-year-old theoretical physicist, found solace in numbers and equations—a refuge from the chaos of the world. To him, the universe was nothing but a finely tuned system, a complex web of laws waiting to be unraveled by pure logic. His cramped office at Cairo University, overflowing with books and manuscripts, was his private kingdom. There, abstract ideas danced across the whiteboard, and cosmic hypotheses transformed into tangible truths on paper. He was obsessed with the theory of parallel universes—not as science fiction, but as elegant mathematical possibilities, clean lines on a graph that never intersect.
That night, which began like any other, Adam was deeply immersed in reviewing a research paper on quantum fluctuations. It was well past midnight, and the only sound in the room was the low hum of the old air conditioner. Then, without warning, it happened.
It wasn't a sound, nor a clear vision—more like a sensation. A fleeting flash, as if a camera had gone off at the edge of his vision, though nothing was there. It was followed by a strange scent, a mix of ozone and rain hitting hot asphalt—an impossible smell in his sealed room. Then came the sound: a faint whisper, like the echo of a distant laugh, fading before he could even begin to locate its source.
Adam stopped writing. He frowned, then shook his head, trying to dismiss the strange sensation. "Fatigue. That's all it is," he muttered to himself and returned to his paper. But the flashes didn't stop. They became more frequent—and sharper. Brief glimpses of unfamiliar rooms, strange faces, and scenes he couldn't place. It felt like a glitch in the matrix: visual and auditory intrusions slicing into his reality for mere moments before vanishing again. A dull headache began to press against his temples—unlike anything he'd felt before.
In the days that followed, the flashes turned into a waking nightmare. Adam began to see and hear things that didn't belong to his world. While giving a lecture on black holes, he suddenly saw another lecture hall—students dressed in unfamiliar attire, and a professor who looked just like him but spoke in a foreign language. At a café, as he sipped his coffee, he overheard a full conversation between two people who weren't there, discussing a technology he had never heard of. Things were getting worse, and it was becoming harder to distinguish reality from what he had started calling "the echoes."
Insomnia had begun to consume his nights. Sleep came with difficulty, and when it did, it brought nightmares—chaotic dreams filled with flashes and overlapping voices. One morning, Adam awoke exhausted, a splitting migraine pounding in his skull. He looked in the mirror and saw sunken eyes and a pale face staring back. The rational, composed Adam—the one who understood everything—was gone. In his place stood someone lost, frightened, and questioning his sanity.
At the university, Dr. Sara, his colleague in the department, noticed the change."Adam, are you alright? You've looked pale lately," she asked one morning, genuine concern in her eyes."I'm fine. Just tired," Adam replied curtly, avoiding eye contact. He didn't want to share what was happening to him. How could a theoretical physicist admit he was seeing parallel worlds?
Professor Ahmed, the department head, was far less sympathetic."Adam, your focus has been off lately. I hope this won't affect your research," he said in a stern tone, only adding to Adam's sense of pressure and isolation.
He began to withdraw, spending more time alone in his office or locked in his apartment, desperately trying to make sense of his condition. He scoured the internet for similar cases—mental disorders that cause hallucinations, neurological anomalies, anything with a logical explanation. But nothing matched what he was experiencing. The echoes were growing stronger, bleeding more into his daily life. It felt like a thin wall separating his reality from another was cracking—letting brief fragments of nothingness slip through. This wasn't just exhaustion anymore. It was something bigger, something that threatened to tear apart the fabric of his reality.
One night, as he browsed the web in frustration, Adam stumbled upon an obscure article discussing "multi-dimensional perceptual disorders"—a theoretical term proposed by a long-forgotten astrophysicist named Dr. Elias. The article was cryptic but eerily familiar. It described symptoms strikingly similar to his own. It offered no answers, but it was the first flicker of hope—proof that he might not be alone, that this might not be madness, but a misunderstood scientific phenomenon.
But before Adam could delve deeper into Elias's theories, the echoes peaked. Sitting in his apartment, trying to focus on a book, the invisible wall finally shattered. In a sudden, overwhelming moment, he saw himself in three separate places at once: inside a dark lab in a white coat, deep in a forest in military gear, and standing in a grand ballroom in a tailored suit. He heard three conversations, felt three clashing emotions: intense scientific focus, dread of the unknown, and sheer elation. It was too much. His mind felt as if it were tearing apart. He collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, the world spinning wildly around him.
In that moment, Adam realized he couldn't face this alone anymore. This wasn't about logic or theory—it was about survival. He needed help. Real help. He remembered Dr. Sara's advice, and the articles he had read on mental health. Despite his doubts, despite being a scientist who believed in the tangible, Adam decided to see a psychiatrist.
For him, that decision felt like a surrender. But it was also his first step toward understanding what was happening—and maybe, just maybe, finding a way to survive it.