Ethan noticed first.
Not because he was especially perceptive, or smarter than anyone else—but because he'd known Benny long enough to recognize when something didn't fit.
It happened during second period.
They were sitting in the back row, pretending to listen while the teacher droned on about something neither of them cared about.
Ethan leaned over, whispering a joke under his breath, the kind he'd told a hundred times before.
Benny didn't laugh.
He didn't even react.
He was staring at the window.
Ethan frowned. "Hey."
Nothing.
"Benny."
Still nothing.
Ethan nudged his arm with his elbow. Harder this time.
Benny blinked.
"Wh—What?"
Ethan pulled back slightly. "Dude. You okay?"
"Yeah," Benny said automatically.
That word again.
Ethan studied him. "You sure? You've been zoning out all day."
Benny shrugged. "Didn't sleep much."
"Same," Ethan said. "That's not new."
Benny didn't answer.
The teacher cleared their throat loudly at the front of the room, and Ethan turned back in his seat. But the unease lingered.
Like noticing a familiar song playing half a second off-beat.
By lunch, it was impossible to ignore.
Benny sat with them like usual, tray untouched, eyes drifting slightly out of sync with the conversation.
When he did speak, it was delayed—responses landing a moment too late, as if he were replying to something that had already passed.
Mira was the one who finally said it out loud.
"Okay," she said, lowering her voice. "What's wrong with you?"
Benny looked up. "What?"
She gestured vaguely. "You. You're… weird today."
Jae snorted. "That's rude."
"It's true," Mira insisted. "He keeps staring like he's buffering."
Ethan laughed reflexively, then stopped when he realized Benny wasn't smiling.
"I'm fine," Benny said.
Ethan leaned forward. "You said that yesterday too."
Benny froze.
"What?"
"Yesterday," Ethan said slowly. "When I asked if you were okay. You said 'I'm fine.' Same tone. Same look."
Benny searched his memory.
He couldn't find the moment Ethan was talking about.
"I don't remember that," he said.
The table went quiet.
Jae frowned. "What do you mean you don't remember?"
"I mean…" Benny hesitated. "I don't
remember you asking."
Mira exchanged a look with Ethan.
"That was yesterday," she said. "After math. You dropped your notebook."
Benny's stomach tightened.
"I didn't drop my notebook."
"Yes, you did," Ethan said. "You didn't even notice until I handed it back."
Benny opened his mouth.
Closed it.
A pressure formed behind his eyes—not pain, just resistance. Like his thoughts were pushing against something that didn't want to move.
"I… I don't remember that," he said again.
Mira laughed nervously. "Okay, that's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
The bell rang, loud and abrupt.
Everyone flinched.
"Whatever," Jae muttered, standing. "You're probably just stressed."
They left it at that.
But Ethan didn't.
After school, Ethan caught up to him at the gate.
"Hey," he said. "Walk home?"
Benny hesitated. "I usually—"
"Yeah, I know," Ethan said. "But today."
Benny nodded.
They walked in silence for a while. The street noises felt too loud again, like everything was competing for attention.
"You've been weird," Ethan said finally.
Benny winced. "You already said that."
"I'm serious."
"So am I," Benny replied. "I don't know what you want me to say."
Ethan stopped walking.
Benny took two more steps before realizing.
He turned back.
Ethan was staring at him with an expression Benny had never seen before—not concern, not annoyance.
Uncertainty.
"You weren't there," Ethan said.
Benny's throat tightened. "What?"
"Yesterday," Ethan continued. "After math.
You were sitting next to me. Then you weren't."
"That doesn't make sense."
"I know," Ethan snapped. Then lowered his voice. "That's why I'm telling you."
Benny felt cold.
"What do you mean I wasn't there?"
Ethan rubbed his hands together. "One second you were copying notes. The next, your seat was empty."
Benny shook his head. "You're messing with me."
"I wish I was."
Benny laughed weakly. "I would remember leaving."
"That's the thing," Ethan said. "You didn't leave."
Benny's pulse spiked.
"What happened then?"
Ethan swallowed. "You came back."
The world felt like it tilted slightly.
"How long?" Benny asked.
"I don't know," Ethan admitted. "Not long. A minute? Maybe less."
Benny's ears rang.
"And no one noticed?"
Ethan looked away. "I did. Mira did too. We thought you went to the bathroom or something."
"But you said—"
"I said your seat was empty," Ethan repeated.
"Not that you stood up."
Benny's stomach churned.
"That's not possible."
"I know."
They resumed walking.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
At Benny's street corner, Ethan stopped again.
"One more thing," he said.
Benny turned.
"When you came back," Ethan continued, "you were already writing."
Benny's heart skipped. "Writing what?"
"Notes," Ethan said. "Same sentence. Same handwriting."
Benny stared at him.
"But the teacher hadn't said anything new."
The words settled heavily between them.
"I didn't think anything of it at the time," Ethan said quietly. "But now… you don't remember yesterday. You keep zoning out. And when I called your name in class today—"
"I didn't hear you," Benny said automatically.
Ethan nodded. "Exactly."
Benny forced a laugh. "So what, you think I'm possessed or something?"
Ethan didn't laugh back.
"I think something's happening to you," he said. "And you don't see it when it does.
Benny felt the urge to deny it.
To brush it off.
To say I'm fine again.
The words stuck in his throat.
"Don't tell anyone," Benny said instead.
Ethan hesitated. "Why not?"
"Because I don't know what it is yet," Benny replied. "And if I say it out loud before I understand it, it'll sound crazy."
Ethan studied him for a long moment.
Then nodded. "Okay."
They stood there awkwardly.
"You should sleep more," Ethan added weakly.
Benny nodded.
"Yeah."
That night, Benny lay awake longer than usual.
Not listening.
Not waiting.
Just thinking.
He replayed the day in his head, looking for gaps.
There were more than he liked.
Moments that slid past without texture.
Conversations that ended without a clear memory of how.
He sat up and reached for his phone.
Stopped.
Let it rest where it was.
"This isn't about you," he whispered.
The room didn't respond.
But the silence felt… attentive.
Like it was waiting to see what he'd decide.
The next morning, as Benny packed his bag, he noticed something new.
A note in his notebook.
Written in his handwriting.
A sentence he didn't remember writing.
Don't trust when it feels seamless.
Benny stared at it for a long time.
Then slowly closed the notebook.
For the first time, he wondered:
How many times had he not been there?
And who had been paying attention when he wasn't?