The vibration stopped.
Not gradually. Not fading out. It cut off like something had been disconnected from its source.
Her breathing didn't change right away. That was what bothered me. She kept breathing as if the sound was still there, shallow and cautious, like she was waiting for it to come back. Her chest rose higher than it needed to. Her ribs showed through the skin when she inhaled. I could count them in the dark.
I reached out and placed my hand on her back.
She flinched.
"Sorry," she whispered, even though I hadn't said anything.
Her skin felt wrong. Not cold. Not hot. Just… delayed. Like the warmth took too long to register. I pressed my palm flatter, testing. The muscles beneath didn't respond immediately. There was a lag, almost imperceptible, but once you notice it, you can't stop noticing it.
"Does it hurt?" I asked.
She thought about it. That was new.
"I don't know," she said. "It feels… different."
Different. That word again. It hovered between us, heavy and undefined.
She rolled onto her back. Her face looked unfamiliar in the low light. Not because it had changed drastically, but because it was slightly misaligned with the version of her I had memorized. One eye opened wider than the other. Her mouth pulled subtly to the left when she frowned, like the muscles on one side were getting instructions late.
She touched her cheek, fingers tracing the bone. "Do I look strange?"
"No," I said immediately.
Too immediately.
She stared at the ceiling. "I feel like something is wrong under my skin. Like it's not sitting right anymore."
I imagined it then. Not metaphorically. Literally. Her skin as a loose covering, stretched over something that had shifted when no one was looking. Organs rearranging themselves quietly, politely, without asking permission.
"Bodies change," I said. "You've just been paying attention lately."
She nodded, relieved. Relief came easier now. Like her resistance was thinning.
The next morning, she couldn't close her right hand properly.
Her fingers curled halfway and stopped, trembling slightly, as if something invisible was holding them back. She laughed it off at first, flexing harder, forcing the joints to obey. The sound her knuckles made wasn't a crack. It was dull. Wet, almost.
She dropped her mug.
It shattered. The coffee spread across the floor in a shape that looked intentional. Veins branching outward.
She stared at her hand like it had betrayed her.
"It didn't do that yesterday," she said.
I picked up the pieces before she could. "You've been tense. Your muscles are probably inflamed."
She touched her forearm. Pressed. When she released, the indentation stayed longer than it should have.
Her smile faltered. "Is that normal?"
I took her wrist gently. I could feel her pulse again, but it felt deeper now, like it had sunk further inside her. Like her body was protecting it.
"See?" I said, pressing just enough to make her wince. "You're fine."
She didn't argue.
At work, she texted me constantly. Not messages. Questions.
Did I always have that mole on my shoulder?
Do you remember me limping last year?
Did I complain about headaches before?
I answered calmly. Consistently. I corrected her when she was wrong. She trusted me more each time I did.
When she came home, she moved carefully, like she was afraid of tearing something. She winced when she sat down. When she stood up. When she laughed.
Her laugh sounded thinner now. Like air escaping through a crack.
That night, she asked me to look at her back.
"There's a spot," she said. "It feels raised."
I turned on the light.
The skin along her spine bulged slightly in one place, not enough to be obvious, but enough to be unsettling. Like something underneath had leaned forward.
I pressed it.
She screamed.
Not loud. Sharp. Immediate. Her body jerked away from my hands like they were a threat.
"I'm sorry," I said, stepping back. "I didn't think it would—"
She was shaking now. Full-body tremors. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably.
"It feels like something moved," she whispered. "Like it slid."
I watched the spot carefully.
It did look lower than before.
"Your muscles are spasming," I said. "You're exhausted. You've been letting your mind scare you."
She wrapped her arms around herself, folding inward. Making herself smaller. Contained.
"I just want to feel normal again," she said.
I sat beside her. Let my presence steady her.
"You will," I said. "You just have to stop fighting it."
Her breathing slowed. Her shaking eased.
Under the pillow, her phone stayed silent.
That was the biggest difference of all.