Ethan came back on Wednesday.
That was the first thing that felt wrong.
Benny noticed him the moment he walked into homeroom—not because of anything dramatic, but because no one reacted. No glances. No whispered questions. No casual, *"Where were you yesterday?"*
Ethan took his seat like he had never been gone.
Like his absence had been a clerical error the world had quietly corrected.
Benny's fingers tightened around his pen.
---
"You weren't here," Benny said under his breath.
Ethan didn't look at him. "Yeah."
"That's it?"
Ethan finally turned. His eyes were tired in a way that sleep couldn't fix. "What do you want me to say?"
"That you were sick. Or suspended. Or abducted by aliens."
A corner of Ethan's mouth twitched. "If I say I don't remember yesterday at all, would that help?"
Benny's stomach dropped.
"You don't?"
Ethan shook his head. "I remember Monday. I remember this morning. There's just… nothing in between."
Benny glanced around the room.
Everyone else was focused on the teacher. Like Normal. Oblivious.
"And no one else noticed?" Benny asked.
Ethan shrugged. "I asked Kyle."
Benny froze.
Ethan frowned. "Why did you react like that?"
"Who's Kyle?" Benny asked carefully.
The air between them tightened.
Ethan stared at him. "You just asked me that yesterday."
"I don't remember that."
"I figured."
---
The rest of the day unfolded under a new tension.
Benny watched Ethan more closely than he watched his surroundings—and that terrified him, because it felt like the exact kind of attention something else wanted.
But Ethan wasn't normal anymore.
He paused too often, like he was waiting for a sentence to finish forming. He wrote notes in the margins of his notebook instead of on the lines. Once, during chemistry, he flinched when the lights flickered—even though they hadn't.
"You're seeing it," Benny said quietly as they walked between classes.
Ethan didn't pretend not to understand. "I'm noticing what doesn't make sense."
"That's dangerous."
"Everything dangerous starts that way."
Benny hated how right that sounded.
---
At lunch, Ethan slid his notebook across the table.
"Read."
Benny hesitated. Then he did.
The pages weren't notes.
They were lists.
Things Ethan *remembered* that apparently didn't exist anymore.
A substitute teacher whose name had vanished from the faculty directory.
A stairwell that led to a locked door no one acknowledged.
Kyle.
Benny's hands shook. "Why are you writing this down?"
"Because it's the only way it stays," Ethan said. "If I don't, it… blurs."
Benny swallowed. "You should stop."
Ethan looked at him sharply. "You already tried stopping. How's that working out?"
The words landed harder than Benny expected.
---
That afternoon, something changed.
Not outside.
Inside.
Benny was walking to his next class when he felt it—the unmistakable sensation of being *observed*.
Not like being watched by eyes.
Like being watched by intent.
He slowed.
The hallway stretched ahead of him, students moving like background noise. Lockers. Posters. Windows.
Then—
A reflection.
Not his.
In the glass of a trophy case, he saw a shape standing just behind him.
Humanoid.
Still.
Too still.
Benny turned.
Nothing.
His heart pounded as he looked back at the glass.
The reflection was gone.
But the feeling remained.
Someone—or something—had looked *back*.
---
"You felt it too," Ethan said later.
They stood outside after school, pretending to wait for different buses.
"You don't know that," Benny said.
Ethan exhaled slowly. "I wasn't asking."
Benny closed his eyes.
This was the line.
Crossing it meant admitting that avoidance had failed.
That silence wasn't safety.
"Yes," he said.
Ethan nodded, like that was confirmation of something he already suspected.
"There's a pattern," Ethan continued. "It doesn't erase randomly. It reacts."
"Reacts to what?"
"To us noticing."
Benny felt cold.
---
That night, Benny didn't touch the phone.
He didn't need to.
As he lay in bed, staring into the dark, the voices returned—not loud, not clear.
Layered.
Human.
Inhuman.
Overlapping murmurs that made his skin crawl.
*Not yet.*
*Too soon.*
*He sees.*
Benny sat up, heart racing.
This time, he didn't pretend it was nothing.
He whispered, "Ethan?"
No answer.
But the voices quieted.
As if listening.
---
The next morning, Ethan didn't remember the notebook.
Benny watched him flip through his bag in confusion.
"I know I had something," Ethan muttered.
Benny said nothing.
He had taken it.
Not to protect himself.
To protect Ethan.
Or so he told himself.
As Ethan walked away, Benny felt the weight of the notebook pressing against his chest.
The observer had noticed Ethan.
And for the first time, Benny understood the real consequence of avoidance wasn't what he lost.
It was who got exposed instead.