Malik stopped hugging me.
It sounds small.
It isn't.
For ten years, he had been gravity. Always pulling toward me. Always warm, loud, close.
Now he kept a careful distance. Like I carried something contagious.
The worst part?
He wasn't wrong.
I woke up to silence.
No music from his room.
No running footsteps.
No dramatic "I'm going to be late!"
Just quiet.
Too quiet.
When I walked into the kitchen, he was already sitting at the table, cereal untouched.
He looked at me the way people look at puzzles.
"I had a dream," he said.
I froze.
"What about?"
"You."
My throat tightened.
"In the dream, you were crying. And you kept saying sorry."
The air felt thinner.
"That's just a dream," I said quickly.
He didn't smile.
"Why do you always look scared when I touch you?"
There it was.
The question I had been avoiding.
"I don't," I lied.
"You do."
He stood up.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like approaching a wild animal.
"Let me see something."
Before I could react, he reached forward and brushed his fingers against mine.
Light.
Barely contact.
But enough.
The world shifted.
"She's the reason."
I jerked my hand away so violently the chair behind me fell.
Malik stared at me.
"You heard something," he said.
It wasn't a question.
Cold spread through my chest.
"You're imagining things."
"No, I'm not!" His voice cracked. "You do that every time! Every single time I touch you!"
Dad's bedroom door creaked down the hall.
We both went silent.
Malik lowered his voice.
"What did you hear?"
I couldn't tell him.
Because if I told him—
She's the reason.
What if the sentence meant I caused whatever happens?
What if knowing that sentence is the thing that makes it true?
"I didn't hear anything," I whispered.
He stepped back.
And I saw it.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Distrust.
"You're lying."
Three words.
He had never said them to me before.
The rest of the day felt fractured.
He avoided me completely.
At school, I forced myself not to follow him.
I stayed home.
Told Dad I wasn't feeling well.
Maybe space would fix it.
Maybe if I stopped interfering, the sentence would disappear.
But paranoia doesn't shrink.
It mutates.
Every passing car sounded suspicious.
Every knock on a neighbor's door felt like a warning.
Every ticking second whispered:
It's getting closer.
That evening, I heard something I wasn't supposed to.
Malik was in his room on the phone.
His voice low.
"She's acting crazy," he said.
A pause.
"No, like… really crazy."
Silence.
Then:
"I think she's hiding something."
My stomach dropped.
Who was he talking to?
A friend?
A teacher?
Someone else?
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
"I'm going to find out what it is."
The line clicked.
I stood in the hallway, heart pounding.
Because suddenly, I understood something terrible.
If he finds out about my ability…
If he touches me and demands answers…
If I tell him…
The sentence might complete itself.
She's the reason.
That night, I had my first thought that truly scared me.
What if the only way to protect him
is to stay away from him?
But it was too late.
Because downstairs, I heard the front door open quietly.
Soft footsteps.
Sneaking.
I looked at the clock.
11:42 p.m.
Malik's birthday was tomorrow.
And he was leaving the house.
Alone.