7:40 a.m.
I was standing at the door of my apartment when the key hesitated in the lock.
As I turned it, something unseen dragged the motion a fraction of a second longer than it should have.
In that instant, I knew — when the lock finally clicked open, time paused. Just for a beat.
It felt like someone, standing somewhere I couldn't see, had gently tugged at the sleeve of time.
If this had happened before, I would've frowned and forced the key the rest of the way.
The door would open cleanly. The hallway lights would glow warm and yellow.
Everything normal.
But today, the air felt heavy.
As if the entire floor had been pressed down by an invisible palm — not enough to be noticed, but enough to make breathing feel wrong.
I took a slow breath.
"Not again," I muttered under my breath.
The cat on top of the shoe cabinet opened its eyes.
Green-gold pupils narrowed into a thin line, fixed on me. A soft rumble came from deep in its throat — not a warning. More like confirmation.
It always appeared like this. Whenever the world felt slightly off-track.
"Don't look at me like that," I whispered, fingers brushing the unopened cat treat in my pocket.
"I'm really trying to live a normal life."
The cat flicked an ear and tucked its head lazily into its paws. Its tail swayed once behind it.
A gesture it only made when it half agreed.
My phone vibrated.
Group chat messages were flooding in again.
Someone complained about an elevator stopping on the eighteenth floor three times — doors opening and closing on an empty car.
Someone else said the convenience store's card readers all froze that morning.
Another shared a photo of the sunrise, blurred like it was seen through frosted glass.
The replies were lighthearted.
"You're overthinking it."
"Probably just fog."
My finger stopped on the last message.
"Does anyone else feel dizzy this morning? Like the world lags half a beat when you stand up."
Posted seven minutes ago.
No replies.
I locked the screen. My fingertips felt cold.
The cat jumped down silently and circled my leg once, tail brushing my skin.
Then it stopped.
Nose lowered.
Sniffing my shadow.
The hallway light stretched it long across the floor. Its edges blurred.
"Hey," I murmured, crouching. "That's rude."
The cat looked up at me.
No mockery. Only calm understanding.
I touched its forehead lightly.
"I didn't misuse it," I whispered. "Right?"
No answer.
Just watchfulness.
Concern.
As if judging whether I'd hurt myself again.
I steadied my breathing until the ringing in my ears faded.
The cat's nose brushed my hand — feather-light.
"I know," I said quietly. "This isn't something you use carelessly."
Only then did it relax.
When I opened the door to leave, the cat didn't follow.
It climbed onto the windowsill, basking in sunlight.
Its tail swayed once.
Like goodbye.
Like waiting.
Normal never disappeared.
It just started being used.
Some people never notice.
Some feel unwell but can't explain why.
And me —
I can touch the line.
And once you do, there's no going back.