The Date above Their Heads

The Rules I Don’t Break

I don’t like going home.

Not because it’s loud.

But because it isn’t.

The door clicks shut behind me, and the silence settles in immediately, thick, familiar, and waiting. It fills every corner with the apartment as if it belongs here more than I do.

I don’t turn on the lights.

I just stood there for a moment, my hand still resting on the doorknob, listening.

Nothing answers back.

No footsteps.

No quiet movement.

No voice calling my name from the other room.

Just silence.

I swallow and step further inside.

The apartment is exactly how I left it this morning. It always is. The couch untouched. The kitchen is clean. The air is still.

Nothing changes unless I make it.

That’s the first thing you learn when you live alone.

The second is that silence can be louder than anything else.

I dropped my bag by the door and walked into the kitchen, grabbing a glass without really thinking. The tap runs, the sound echoing slightly as I fill it.

I stare at the water as it rises.

Clear.

Still.

Predictable.

I wish everything worked like that.

I take a sip, then set the glass down harder than I meant to.

Because nothing about this, about my life, is predictable.

Not really.

I push away from the counter and lean back against it, folding my arms loosely as I stare at the opposite wall.

There are rules.

That’s the only reason I haven’t completely lost my mind.

Rules make it manageable.

Rules make it… survivable.

I didn’t figure them out all at once.

It took time.

Mistakes.

Trial and error I never wanted to go through.

My jaw tightens slightly.

But now I know them.

I have to know them.

Because breaking them,

That’s not something I can afford.

I close my eyes for a second, then open them again, forcing the thoughts into something structured. Controlled.

Rule one: I only see it when I look someone in the eye.

Not before.

Not after.

It happens at that exact moment, eye contact, and then it’s there.

A date.

Always a date.

No explanation. No countdown. Just a fixed point in time.

I can look away, but it doesn’t disappear from my memory.

Once I’ve seen it, it’s stuck.

Permanent.

Rule two: it never changes.

Not naturally.

Not randomly.

Not over time.

What I see is what will happen.

I’ve tested that.

More than once.

People I saw years ago,

Their dates stayed the same.

Unmoving.

Unavoidable.

Final.

My fingers curl slightly.

Until I interfere.

My chest tightens.

That leads to the next rule.

Rule three: if I try to change it… something worse happens.

The words sit heavy in my mind.

Because I don’t just know that.

I proved it.

I push myself off the counter and walk into the living room, my steps slow, my thoughts heavier now.

The couch creaks softly as I sit down, leaning forward slightly, my elbows resting on my knees.

The girl from earlier flashes through my mind again.

Laughing.

Alive.

And then,

Gone.

I swallow.

I didn’t interfere.

And she was still dead.

But that’s the thing.

That’s the part people wouldn’t understand.

That I didn’t understand at first.

Interfering doesn’t stop it.

It just… rewrites it.

Changes the path.

Not the ending.

Never the ending.

My throat feels tight.

I press my hands together slightly, grounding myself in the present.

There’s one more rule.

The one I don’t fully understand.

The one I try not to think about too much.

Rule four… there’s always a cost.

I don’t know exactly what that means.

Not completely.

But I’ve felt it.

After my mom,

Something has changed.

Not just around me.

In me.

Memories blur sometimes.

Small things slip.

Feelings dull in ways they didn’t before.

Like something was taken.

Or maybe broken.

I don’t know.

And I don’t want to find out how much worse it can get.

So I don’t test it.

I don’t push it.

I don’t break the rules.

Because the rules are the only thing keeping everything from falling apart.

A quiet sigh leaves me as I lean back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

This is how I live now.

Careful.

Distant.

Detached.

I don’t look at people.

Not directly.

Not long enough.

I avoid conversations that last too long.

Avoid connections that might matter.

Because the moment someone matters,

Their date matters.

And I can’t carry that.

I won’t.

The TV remote sits beside me, and I grab it, turning it on just to fill the silence. Voices spill into the room instantly, fake and meaningless, but loud enough to push back the quiet.

I don’t pay attention to what’s on.

I just let it play.

My eyes drift shut slowly, my head resting against the back of the couch.

Tomorrow will be the same.

I’ll wake up.

Go out.

Keep my head down.

Avoid eye contact.

Ignore the dates.

That’s the routine.

That’s the system.

That’s how I survived this.

Because the moment I break those rules,

The moment I let myself believe I can change something,

Everything falls apart.

It always does.

I exhale slowly, my fingers tightening slightly against the fabric of the couch.

I won’t let that happen again.

I can’t.

Because I already know how it ends.

And I’m not strong enough to watch it happen twice.