The first thing that changes is time.
Not the clocks—those keep seeing that everything is normal—but the way moments stretch, soften, lose their edges. Seconds stop lining up properly. Thoughts arrive, then wander off before finishing. You notice it when your attention keeps drifting back to the same place, the same presence, like finding a groove it didn’t know was carved for it.
You don’t remember deciding to watch.
It just happens.
At first it’s curiosity. Harmless. Observational. The kind that tells itself a story about being in control. You lean back, settle into stillness, tell yourself you can look away whenever you want. That this is just interest, nothing more.
But interest sharpens.
The room seems quieter now, even though nothing has changed. Sounds feel distant, like they belong to someone else. Your focus tightens, narrowing until there’s only one thing that matters: the subtle shift in expression, the way confidence hums just under the surface, the certai
