The days grew colder. The chill wasn't harsh, just a lingering presence—whispering at the back of his neck as he moved through his routines. The air smelled of falling leaves and something unspoken. Maybe it was the season. Or maybe it was just him.
Lian hadn't been seeing animals as often—not as clearly. He still saw them sometimes, but they flickered like half-formed thoughts, faint outlines in the corner of his vision. Not the vivid shapes he had once been sure of.
It was frustrating.
At school, things were quiet. He didn't talk much. Didn't feel the need. His friends had their own lives, their own things to worry about. But even Jamie had started to pull away, too busy with her own pursuits.
He wasn't used to this silence. He was used to it with his father. Not here. Not with them.
It was during lunch that he saw it again. The fox. Only this time, it wasn't someone he knew. A stranger. A girl, sitting alone at the far end of the cafeteria. She had the kind of sharp features that reminded him of an animal—delicate but dangerous, her eyes focused on something far beyond the lunchroom.
Lian's stomach tightened. The fox was one of the trickiest animals. It could be clever and kind, but it could also mislead. He had learned that lesson the hard way.
He couldn't stop looking at her.
Later, he found himself standing by the lockers, Jamie next to him, talking about something, but Lian wasn't really listening.
"What is it?" she asked, finally noticing his lack of attention.
"There's someone new," he said, his voice quiet. "She… she looks like a fox."
Jamie raised an eyebrow. "A fox?"
"Yeah. Like, she's too perfect. Too… smart."
Jamie snorted. "You're not serious. You're reading way too much into people's looks."
Lian frowned. Maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn't the animal he should be paying attention to. But then, he thought of the fox again. And he couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something important.
He didn't sleep well that night. Thoughts buzzed in his head, weaving through his dreams. There were animals—lots of them. A spider. A bird. And the fox. She was everywhere, slipping in and out of his vision, whispering things he couldn't understand.
When he woke, it was still dark. He stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what he had seen. Was he wrong about her? About everything? Had his perception been faulty all along?
He didn't know anymore.
The next day, he saw the girl again. The fox girl.
This time, she was sitting near the window during English class, eyes fixed on the pages of a book, but Lian couldn't shake the feeling that she was looking at something deeper than just words. Something hidden. Something only she could see.
He had to know.
He walked up to her at the end of class, his heart pounding.
"Hi," he said awkwardly. "I, um… I noticed you were reading a book. I'm Lian."
She looked up, surprised but not unfazed. Her eyes were dark, sharp.
"I know," she said simply.
Lian blinked. "What?"
"I know who you are," she said again, her voice soft but sure. "You're the one who sees things, aren't you?"
Lian's throat went dry. She couldn't have known that. Could she?
He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.
"You're not the only one," she said, her gaze flickering over his shoulder. "You'll figure that out soon enough."
That night, he couldn't stop thinking about her. Her words kept circling around in his head.
"You're not the only one."
He couldn't sleep again. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—her eyes, dark and knowing, always watching him from the corners of his mind.
And in the silence, something shifted. Something he couldn't name.
The next day, he tried to focus in class, but his mind kept drifting. He couldn't get her out of his head. The girl. The fox.
He noticed something strange that afternoon. His vision was clearer than usual, sharper somehow. People around him seemed to be shifting. Their edges weren't quite as firm as they used to be. He saw faces—some familiar, some not—become blurred, like they were trying to morph into something else.
He thought of the notes he had copied from the journals—the lines about eyes and hands. He hadn't understood them at the time. But now, standing there, he saw it. People weren't static. They were changing. Shifting.
And he could see it.
At lunch, he sat alone, staring at the cafeteria's chaotic swirl. The fox girl wasn't there today, but he couldn't stop thinking about her. Couldn't stop wondering if she was right—that maybe he wasn't the only one who saw. Maybe there were others.
He wondered if they knew what it was like to see the world this way.
Then his gaze fell on Jamie, sitting across the room with a few friends. She was laughing, a genuine, effortless laugh. And for a moment, her animal form flickered into his vision—bright, golden, like the sun.
Not a fox.
A bird.
A bird, free and untethered.
He hadn't seen that before. He hadn't noticed her like this.
And suddenly, he felt something shift again. Not in the world, but in himself.
That night, he sat by his window, the cold creeping in through the cracks of his room. His fingers hovered over his notebook, his sketchbook open to the last page.
For the first time in a while, he didn't draw an animal.
Instead, he wrote.
The world shifts. The shapes are never final.