The morning sky was too blue.

Not normal blue.
Not postcard blue.

The kind that looked like someone turned on a filter
and forgot to turn it off.

I walked to the bakery downstairs,
bought two round rolls and a croissant,
and tried to pretend today was ordinary.

By the time I got home,
Patch was already on the chair—
like he knew I’d return with food.

“You didn’t pay for any of this,” I muttered.

He looked away,
but his ears betrayed him,
tilting sharply toward the bag in my hand.

I tore off a small piece of croissant
and pushed it toward him.

He sniffed it.
Paused.
Then ate it like he was evaluating the stability of the universe.

I sat on the edge of my bed and took a bite of bread.

That’s when it hit.

A faint, sharp prick at the back of my eyes—
like someone whispering too close to my vision.

The light in the room bent for a fraction of a second,
edges trembling,
as if someone dragged a finger across the frame of reality
to see if it would peel.

My breath halted.

…Again.

The sensation was stronger than yesterday,
more insistent.

Patch froze mid-chew.
His ears flattened.
His tail puffed out like a warning flare.

He wasn’t looking at the distortion.

He was looking at me.

“Hey…” I whispered.
“What now?”

He didn’t blink.

I stood up slowly.
The air pressed against my skin—
soft,
but deliberate,
like being pushed from a distance.

A ripple flickered at the corner of my vision.
A symbol flashed—
clearer than before,
thin strokes of impossible geometry,
vanishing before I could process it.

My heartbeat stumbled.

Not imagination.
Not fatigue.

Something was layering itself over my senses,
piece by piece.

Patch jumped onto the table,
leaned forward,
and stared straight into my eyes.

His pupils narrowed to slits—
not in aggression,
but in recognition.

Like he saw something inside me
that wasn’t there yesterday.

“…Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered.
It sounded weak even to me.

Patch kept staring.

The pull in my chest tightened,
sharp and magnetic,
like a hook catching deeper.

A shiver ran through me.

Was this still “infection”?
Or was it… something else?

The tremor ended as abruptly as it began.
The room fell silent.
Too silent.

Patch finally blinked and turned away,
but his tail kept flicking—
a nervous metronome
marking some shift I couldn’t name.

I sat back down,
hands resting on my knees,
steadying my breath.

“What’s happening to me…” I whispered.

No one answered.

But the silence
felt closer than before.