The cold morning air made Lian's breath mist in front of him as he walked to school. The wind had picked up overnight, swirling dead leaves along the sidewalks. It was as if the earth was preparing itself for the inevitable change, a shift that Lian wasn't sure he was ready for.
His mind, too, seemed to be in constant motion—thoughts colliding and breaking apart, a maze of confusion he wasn't sure how to navigate anymore. It wasn't just the fox girl or his recent realization about the shifting nature of those around him. It was everything. The patterns he had once relied on were beginning to blur, becoming less concrete.
By the time he reached school, the familiar hum of activity felt distant. The students filed into the building like they always did, their faces animated with their own thoughts, their own lives. Lian watched them with a detached sort of interest. He wasn't really part of their world anymore. And maybe that was the point. Maybe the distance was necessary, even if it felt like a quiet ache.
Ms. Devon was waiting for him at the door of the classroom.
"You're quiet today, Lian," she said as he walked in. "Are you alright?"
He nodded, though he wasn't sure it was true. It seemed like the easiest answer, even though he felt anything but fine.
"I'm just… thinking," he muttered, lowering his gaze to his desk.
She studied him for a moment, then let it go. "Alright. Let me know if you need anything."
Lian didn't respond, just sat down and stared at his notebook. The lines of the pages blurred together, and for a brief moment, he could swear the paper was moving beneath his hand.
A small shift. A subtle shift. But enough to unsettle him. He forced himself to focus, turning his attention to the lesson. But his mind was elsewhere, circling back to the strange sensation from last night—the sense that the world was slipping beneath him, turning in unpredictable directions.
After school, Lian made his way to the park. It had become a quiet refuge for him—away from his father's silence, away from his mother's quiet concern, away from the weight of seeing animals in people's souls.
He sat on the swing set again, the chains creaking under his weight, and pushed himself back and forth. The rhythmic motion helped settle his thoughts, even if just for a moment. The world was quieter here, the trees lining the edges of the park stretching high above, their branches bare, reaching for the sky.
Lian closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind, but a fleeting image surfaced. The fox girl. Her eyes.
She had been so close to him, and yet so far away. What was she trying to show him? And why had he been so eager to run from her?
He exhaled slowly, opening his eyes. There, standing by the fence, was someone familiar—a face he'd seen every day but had never truly looked at. It was Jamie, her arms crossed, watching him with a kind of curiosity.
Lian's breath caught in his throat. How long had she been there?
"Hey," she called, walking over slowly.
Lian wiped his palms on his jeans, the feeling of being caught off guard still lingering in his chest. He nodded a greeting, his throat tight.
"Everything okay?" she asked, her voice quiet but steady.
He hesitated. Then, almost reluctantly, he spoke. "I don't know. Things are... changing, and I don't know how to keep up with it all."
Jamie sat on the swing next to him, her eyes scanning the horizon as the breeze rustled through the empty branches of the trees. "Change is like that. It doesn't always announce itself."
Lian couldn't help but glance at her, but she didn't look at him. "I don't know what to do with it."
"You don't have to know," Jamie said. "Not right now. Just… let it come. Let it change."
Lian was silent for a long time. Then, slowly, he spoke, his voice soft. "I keep seeing things. People are changing. They look different. I don't know what to trust."
"Maybe that's the point," Jamie said. "Maybe you're not supposed to trust what you see, but what's underneath. What people don't show."
Lian's stomach twisted. She was right, in a way. But how could he trust something he couldn't see? How could he rely on feelings that were always shifting?
"What if I make the wrong choice?" he asked.
Jamie shrugged. "Then you learn from it. Maybe the mistake isn't the worst part. Maybe it's the running from it that makes it hurt."
Lian looked at her, his mind racing. "How do you know all this?"
She finally turned to face him, offering him a small, almost rueful smile. "I don't. I'm just trying to figure it out myself."
The words lingered in the air between them, thick with unspoken understanding.
Later that night, Lian lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind was alive with images—flickers of animals, shifting shapes, faces he couldn't quite place. He had always felt like an observer, watching the world from a distance. But now? Now, he wasn't sure if he was the one shifting, or if the world was.
Was there even a difference anymore?
He closed his eyes, letting the quiet hum of the world settle around him, and for a moment, he let go of the weight of everything.
When he opened his eyes again, the world felt different. The air was still. His mind was still.
Maybe Jamie was right. Maybe it was time to stop running.