Benny learned very quickly that not noticing things took effort.
It wasn't enough to ignore his phone. That was easy—he'd been doing it for days now, letting it sit untouched on his desk, face down, screen dark. Silence had become the default.
What was harder was ignoring everything else.
The pauses between words.
The way some conversations ended too cleanly.
How certain rooms felt emptier than they should have been.
Benny stopped looking for those moments.
Or at least, he tried.
At school, he kept his head down.
Not dramatically. Not in a way that drew attention. He answered when called on, laughed at jokes half a second late, walked with the crowd instead of ahead of it.
Blending in required precision.
In the hallway, he passed two students whispering near the lockers.
"…heard it was just a glitch."
"No, my brother said it happens all the time in old systems."
"Still weird though."
Benny didn't slow. Didn't turn his head.
He focused on the sound of his own footsteps.
By midweek, the incident had become something else entirely.
Not forgotten.
Reframed.
People didn't argue about what happened anymore. They argued about why it wasn't important.
"It's not like anyone got hurt."
"People freak out over nothing."
"You ever hear about mass misremembering?"
The words floated around classrooms and lunch tables, detached from any real emotion.
The conclusion was always the same:
Nothing to worry about.
Benny listened without engaging.
Every instinct told him that engaging was dangerous.
In English class, the teacher assigned a group discussion.
Benny ended up with three people he barely spoke to. They sat in a loose circle, papers spread out between them.
"So," one of them said, tapping a pen against the desk, "what do you think the author meant by unreliable narrator?"
Benny's chest tightened.
"Someone whose perspective you can't fully trust," he said carefully.
"Because they lie?" another student asked.
"Or because they don't know everything," Benny replied.
No one noticed the way his hands clenched under the desk.
Ethan didn't push him.
That was the worst part.
Ethan noticed everything—Benny was sure of it—but he didn't ask questions anymore. He didn't bring up patterns. He didn't bring out the notebook in front of Benny.
He adapted.
That scared Benny more than confrontation would have.
During lunch, Ethan sat across from him, eating quietly.
"You don't have to pretend with me," Ethan said eventually.
Benny didn't look up. "I'm not pretending."
Ethan studied him. "You're acting like if you don't acknowledge something, it won't notice you."
Benny's fork paused midair.
"That's not true," he said.
Ethan didn't argue.
Which somehow made it feel true anyway.
The rumors changed tone by Friday.
Less curiosity.
More judgment.
"Some people just like attention."
"Stress does weird things to memory."
"I heard one kid freaked out for no reason."
Benny didn't know if those comments were about him.
He didn't want to know.
Knowing meant acknowledging.
Acknowledging meant risk.
At home, things were worse.
Not because anything strange happened—but because nothing did.
His parents talked about work. About bills. About dinner plans. They laughed at a TV show Benny didn't recognize.
The house felt solid. Anchored.
Too anchored.
Benny went to his room early and shut the door.
He sat on his bed, phone still untouched on the desk, and stared at the wall.
"I'm not doing anything," he said aloud.
The words sounded defensive, even to him.
No response came.
He exhaled slowly.
Good.
That night, he dreamed of walking through school halls that stretched too far, lockers repeating endlessly. Every door was closed. Every classroom empty.
He didn't open any of them.
He woke up relieved.
By the end of the week, Benny had perfected avoidance.
He didn't look at clocks too long.
He didn't listen for gaps in sound.
He didn't revisit memories that felt unstable.
And it worked.
Mostly.
Until a girl he didn't know stopped him near the stairs.
"You were there, right?" she asked.
Benny blinked. "Where?"
"In Caldwell's class. That day."
His heart rate spiked.
"I don't remember," he said immediately.
The lie came too easily.
She frowned. "That's weird. I thought you—"
"Sorry," Benny said, already stepping around her. "I'm late."
He didn't look back.
Ethan watched him go.
He didn't follow.
That night, Benny lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on him.
His phone didn't vibrate.
That should have been comforting.
Instead, it felt like being ignored on purpose.
Benny turned onto his side, facing away from the desk.
"I'm staying out of it," he whispered to the dark. "I'm not looking."
The room remained unchanged.
But somewhere—he was certain of it now—something had noticed the effort.
And was patient enough to wait.
---
Yo it's ASH here just wanted to say thank you for reading so far I know Rn the story is mid but believe me it's gonna get better and better as the story goes and I'll keep leaving these short messages/informations time to time
Til we meet again 🤝