You open the door, and the first thing you hear is chaos. Ticking. Whirring. Clicking. Time hits you in the face. Definitely not like a breeze, but a storm.
A thousand clocks, ticking in protest. Some fast, some slow. Some ticking backward. Some not ticking at all. It’s a room where time isn’t measured, it argues. A battlefield of seconds, each clock with a personality louder than the last.
One clock, shaped like a Rubik’s Cube, spins wildly; its hands are confused. It ticks like your first semester in college: waking up in the wrong class, submitting assignments to the wrong portal, figuring out life with caffeine and panic.
You chuckle. It knows you.
Next to it, a glossy smartwatch screams with beeps and vibrations. It’s the gym freak. The one who wakes you at 5 a.m., tracks every step, logs every calorie, and reminds you that your screen time is a crime.
It doesn’t tick, it judges.
In the corner, there's a tiny alarm clock wrapped in fairy lights. Soft pink. Cute, but passive-aggressive. It ticks in lullabies, reminding you of the friend who says, “Take rest,” and then sends four PDFs on “How to Be Productive”.
You both love and fear it.
Hanging crooked on the ceiling is a clock that plays lo-fi music. It ticks only between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. (your sacred hours). It knows the pages of your journal, the playlist you don’t share, and the tears you blame on “something in your eye.”
But not all clocks are kind.
A rusted wall-clock ticks violently, stuck between 9:59 and 10:00, the moment before your biggest mistake. Maybe a breakup, a betrayal, or a choice you wish you could press Ctrl+Z on. It won’t move forward. It wants you to suffer.
You look away.
And then there’s that clock. A blank one. No hands, no ticks. Just a mirror where the dial should be. You stare, and it stares back, reflecting the version of you you’re becoming, or maybe… avoiding.
The room swells with noise. Time spirals. Seconds turn to questions. Minutes blur into memories. You’re drowning in time; not lost, but multiplied.
And then...
Silence.
Every clock dies at once.
Except one.
It begins to tick. Slowly. Softly. Almost... shyly.
It doesn’t belong to yesterday.
It doesn’t race toward tomorrow.
It lives entirely now.
You watch it, heart still. Maybe, just maybe, this is the version of you that’s been waiting all along; the one not defined by deadlines, mistakes, or even dreams.
The tick grows louder.
Or was that your heartbeat?
And now, only one question remains:
Will you follow the clock that ticks...
or the one that finally lets you breathe?
Tick.
Or is it... a tock?
You decide.