CHAPTER 2 — THE FEAR YOU CAN'T OUTRUN
I didn't sleep that night.
Not because I didn't try.
I lay down. Closed my eyes. Counted the sound of my breathing. Tried to pretend everything was normal.
But normal had slipped through my fingers.
Every time I blinked, I felt my senses expand a little too far — noticing things I shouldn't. The faint hum of electricity in the walls. The tiny vibration of a lorry two streets away. Even the heartbeat in my own chest felt… clearer. Like someone had polished the inside of me.
It wasn't exciting.
It wasn't empowering.
It was scary.
People don't talk about the fear that comes before power.
They talk about the miracles, the transformations, the "chosen one" moments.
No one talks about the part where your own body becomes unfamiliar.
Around 3 a.m., I gave up pretending. I sat at the edge of my bed, hands in my hair, breathing like I was afraid of waking up a version of myself I couldn't control.
"What's wrong with me…" I whispered again.
Except this time, the darkness didn't feel like it was listening.
It felt like it was waiting.
Morning Came Too Slowly
When I stepped outside, the street looked the same, but I didn't.
Every movement around me felt too loud, too meaningful. The shopkeeper dragging open his shutters. The old lady sprinkling water in front of her door. The distant horn of a bus stuck in traffic.
Everything felt like it had a pulse.
People walked past me like nothing had changed—
but I knew.
The world wasn't different.
I was.
And pretending otherwise was becoming impossible.
When I reached work, my hands were trembling. Not violently. Just a subtle, restless shake — like my body was trying to tell me something in a language I hadn't learned yet.
My boss noticed.
He didn't ask if I was okay.
He just frowned.
"You sick or something?" he muttered.
I forced a smile.
"Just tired."
He shrugged.
People don't question tiredness.
It's the one excuse everyone understands.
The First Breakdown
It happened behind the shop.
I was taking out the trash, thinking about nothing, trying to breathe normally. But my mind wouldn't slow down. Every sound felt magnified. Every movement felt tracked by something inside me.
The plastic bag slipped from my hands.
I leaned against the wall.
Forced air into my lungs.
"Calm down," I told myself.
"You're okay. You're just tired."
But my body didn't listen.
My chest felt tight.
My vision blurred at the edges.
My skin felt like it didn't fit me.
And for a terrifying moment—
the world slowed again.
Not like before.
Not a helpful slowdown.
This was washed-out, distorted, uneven — like reality was glitching around me. Sounds dragged too long. Movements repeated. Colours dimmed.
My breath hitched.
"Stop," I whispered.
"Stop… stop…"
I squeezed my eyes shut.
And the world snapped back.
The alley was normal again.
My breathing wasn't.
I sank to my knees, fingers digging into the ground.
This wasn't adrenaline.
Wasn't luck.
Wasn't imagination.
Something inside me was waking up faster than I could keep up.
I wasn't breaking.
I was changing.
But change feels like breaking when you're in the middle of it.
The First Person Who Noticed
"Hey."
The voice made me jump.
I turned, wiping my face quickly — too quickly — like a kid caught crying.
A girl stood at the alley entrance.
I'd seen her before. She worked at the pharmacy across the street. Always walked like she had somewhere important to be. Never looked lost.
Right now, she was staring at me like she could see straight through the lies I hadn't even spoken yet.
"You okay?" she asked.
I opened my mouth.
I wanted to say yes.
I wanted to say it was nothing.
But all that came out was—
"I… I don't know."
She didn't laugh.
Didn't get awkward.
Didn't leave.
She stepped closer, eyes calm but sharp — like she had experience with people who said they were fine when they weren't.
"You look like you're about to pass out," she said.
"Sit properly before you crack your head open."
I tried to chuckle. It came out shaky.
She crouched beside me.
Her presence felt grounding — not comforting, not soft — just real.
"What happened?" she asked.
I stared at my hands.
At the faint tremble that wouldn't disappear.
And for the first time since everything started…
I told someone the truth.
Not all of it.
Not the impossible parts.
Just the part that felt human enough to say out loud:
"I think something's wrong with me."
She didn't look surprised.
She didn't look scared.
In fact, she looked like she'd been waiting for me to say it.
That scared me more than anything.
"Good," she said quietly.
"Then you're not crazy."
My breath froze.
She knew something.
She wasn't guessing.
She wasn't misunderstanding.
She knew.