Racing Through a Teal Hallway to a Grocery Store Elevator

Racing Through a Teal Hallway to a Grocery Store Elevator

I was late for the morning commuter train, sprinting down the hallway of my apartment building. The hallway seemed to stretch forever, each turn looking exactly like the lobby I know, but the light was a sickly teal. I finally reached the elevator, pressed the button, and the doors opened onto a grocery store instead of a shaft. A cashier I recognized from high school—her face split between a friendly smile and a distant, older version of herself—handed me a cart full of groceries I hadn't bought. I tried to explain I needed to catch the train, but the intercom announced a 'portal departure' at 8:03. I ran to the platform, only to find the train's doors were a glass wall looking into my living room, where my cat was perched on the couch, staring at me like it knew something was off. I hesitated, then the doors closed, and I was back in the hallway, still breathing hard, realizing I was still in my pajamas and the keys were missing from my pocket.