She started forgetting where her body ended.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
She would misjudge doorways, turning her shoulders sideways too early, or not early enough. Sometimes she clipped the frame and didn't react until seconds later, when a bruise surfaced like delayed feedback.
Once, she asked me, genuinely confused, "Did the hallway get narrower?"
I told her no.
She accepted it, but she began walking differently after that. Arms held closer. Chin tucked. Like she was trying to occupy less space than she actually did.
Her coordination worsened in specific ways. Fine movements failed first. Buttons. Zippers. Jewelry clasps. She would stare at her fingers as if waiting for them to remember something she'd forgotten to tell them.
"Do they look swollen to you?" she asked.
Her fingers were longer than before. Not visibly stretched. Just subtly disproportionate to the rest of her hand, like they'd grown without asking permission.
"They look tired," I said.
She flexed them. This time, they obeyed immediately. Too immediately. The joints bent farther than they should have, smooth and silent, like hinges that had been oiled too well.
She pulled her hand back, startled.
"That felt wrong," she whispered.
"You're focusing too much," I replied.
She stopped.
That night, she woke screaming.
Not words. Just sound. Raw, involuntary. Her body arched sharply off the bed, spine bowing upward like it was being pulled from the inside. For a moment, she balanced there on her head and heels, shaking violently.
I grabbed her shoulders, trying to ground her.
Her skin was slick. Damp in a way sweat isn't. When I pressed my hands down, her torso resisted, pushing upward against me with strength she didn't have while awake.
Something under her ribs shifted violently, rearranging itself in a way that made her scream break into sobs.
Then it stopped.
She collapsed, gasping, clutching at her stomach like she was afraid it would open.
"I felt it turn," she cried. "I felt it move around me."
I held her until her shaking slowed.
"You had a night terror," I said. "Your body locked up."
"No," she whispered. "It wasn't locking. It was making room."
In the morning, she couldn't stand straight.
Not from pain. From alignment. Her center of gravity had changed. When she tried to straighten, she tipped forward slightly, like she was compensating for weight she couldn't see.
She leaned against the counter, breathing hard.
"Something's wrong with my balance," she said.
I watched the subtle curve of her abdomen. The way it protruded just slightly now, firm beneath the skin.
"You're bloated," I said.
She pressed her hands there.
It pressed back.
She recoiled, eyes wide.
"Did you—"
I cut her off gently. "You startled yourself."
She nodded automatically. Her trust was muscle memory now.
Later, she tried to shower and couldn't lift her arms high enough to wash her hair. Not because of stiffness. Because something deep in her chest pulled painfully when she raised them, like connective tissue stretched too far, anchored where it hadn't been before.
She lowered her arms, breathing shallowly.
"I think my organs are in the wrong place," she said quietly.
"That's anxiety talking," I replied. "You've been spiraling."
She stared at the tile wall. Tiny cracks ran through it, branching unpredictably. She traced them with her eyes like a map.
"I don't think I'm spiraling," she said. "I think I'm being rearranged."
That afternoon, she sat on the floor and cried without knowing why.
Her tears came late too. Long pauses between sobs. Her face would contort, mouth opening, chest hitching, but the sound lagged behind, like the emotion was waiting for clearance.
When I knelt beside her, her head rested against my thigh.
"You're safe," I said. "Nothing is happening to you."
Her cheek felt heavier than it should have. Denser. Like more of her weight had settled there.
"I don't feel like I fit inside myself anymore," she whispered.
I stroked her hair. Slow. Repetitive. Soothing.
"You'll get used to it," I said. "Everyone does."
She nodded faintly.
That night, when she lay still long enough, I could see the outline clearly now.
Not a bump. Not a shape people would recognize.
A suggestion.
A wrongness in the way her skin stretched, the way her breathing adjusted around something that no longer adjusted to her.
She slept eventually.
Her body didn't.