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Loveday jolts awake with a gasp as they feel cool Enderman hands snap their neck, scrambling up out of the bed they'd hastily placed on the base of one of the nearby petrified worms. The dead sea is still. The moon glows overhead. It's still the middle of the night.
They feel horrid. The dreams have never made them feel this bad before, they've had them sometimes when they sleep. More often than not, really, they're quite used to it. But, then. They'd never died in any of the dreams before. Now, it just fills them with a rising sense of panic, clutching for their communicator and sending off a test message -- they could still be red, what if they're still red?
They falter. None of those words mean anything, not really. Even if it did, the communicator shows their name as normal in the message history. No indicator that what they dreamed still affects them -- hell, there's no indicator that what they dreamed was even real in the first place.
Loveday slips back into their bed, slow and hesitant, and tries to return to sleep, with their anxiety not dissuaded at all.