Chapter 8: The Slip
754 Words
“I might not find you next time.”
The words sank straight through everything—noise, motion, thought—and settled somewhere deeper than fear.
Next time.
My chest tightened. “How many times has there been a ‘next time’?”
He didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
A hollow feeling opened inside me, like something important had been removed—something I couldn’t name.
“Why don’t I remember?” I asked.
“They don’t let you,” he said.
“They,” again. The word felt thinner now. Less abstract. More real.
“Who are they?”
This time, nothing broke. No distortion. Just silence.
“I can’t say it,” he said.
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
“Both.”
That pressure returned—subtle, but there. Not in my head this time. Around us.
Watching. Waiting.
“For what?” I asked.
His eyes flicked past me. “For you to slip.”
A chill ran down my spine. “Slip how?”
Instead of answering, he let go of my wrist.
Fully.
The absence hit harder than the grip.
Nothing anchored me anymore.
The world didn’t change. No silence. No reset.
Just normal.
Too normal.
“You’re already doing it,” he said.
“Doing what?”
“Paying attention.”
“That’s a problem?”
“Yes.”
A short, disbelieving laugh escaped me. “So I’m supposed to ignore everything?”
“That’s exactly what you’ve been doing.”
The words landed wrong.
“Been?” I repeated.
His expression shifted—something like regret. “You’re good at it. Better than most.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does. You just don’t remember why.”
My head started to ache again. Slow. Building.
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Then show me.”
That made him pause.
For a moment, everything stilled.
“You don’t want that,” he said.
“I do.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You don’t.”
“Stop telling me what I—”
The sentence snapped.
Not cut off.
Replaced.
“—already saw.”
The words weren’t mine.
His eyes widened. Not confusion.
Recognition.
“No,” he said under his breath.
Too late.
The world shifted.
Not a clean break this time.
It overlapped.
The street stayed. The noise stayed.
But something else slid over it.
Out of sync.
A man walking past us—
Stopped.
Turned.
Walked back.
Then forward again.
Looping.
A car at the intersection—
Paused—
Snapped back—
Repeated the turn.
My breath came faster. “What is this—”
“You need to stop,” he said, stepping closer. “Right now.”
“I’m not doing anything!”
“You are.”
The pressure slammed in.
Not around us.
Through us.
My vision flickered—
Street.
Not street.
Street again.
For a split second, everything dropped away.
And I saw—
Nothing.
Not darkness.
Not emptiness.
Just—
absence.
Then it was gone.
I staggered, grabbing onto him.
“This isn’t real,” I said, my voice shaking.
“It is.”
“No—it can’t be. That—” I swallowed. “That wasn’t anything.”
“I know.”
“Then what was it?”
He hesitated.
“A gap,” he said.
“In what?”
His eyes met mine.
“…everything.”
My grip tightened. “That’s not possible.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
The looping around us stuttered harder now. Faster. Less precise.
Breaking.
“Then fix it!” I said.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because this—” he gestured at the stuttering world, at me—“this is you.”
The words hit hard.
My hands loosened.
“No,” I said. “That’s not—”
Another flicker.
Longer.
The street stretched—
Sound warped—
And I felt it again.
That absence.
Closer now.
Waiting.
“You’re breaking through,” he said.
No relief in his voice.
Only urgency.
“And if I do?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“If you do,” he said slowly, “they stop resetting.”
Something in my chest lifted—
hope, maybe—
until he added:
“And they start removing.”
The word settled heavy.
Removing.
“What does that mean?”
His expression hardened.
“…there might not be anything left to come back to.”
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