Chapter 7: The Friend Who Notices

Morning came sluggishly, dragging Cass back into reality with a groggy haze that clung to him like damp cloth. The conversation with Vera the night before lingered in his mind, the way she had described the faceless cat standing in the street. The way she had asked if he was okay.

Cass wasn't okay.

He knew that now.

But pretending was easier. Especially with Vera. Especially with Logan. Especially with his wife, who was already bustling around the kitchen, humming softly as she poured coffee.

"Morning," she greeted without looking up.

Cass grunted in response, dropping into a chair at the table and rubbing his face. He wanted to tell her. Wanted to unload every twisted, fragmented thing in his head and let her tell him it was all just paranoia.

But he knew better.

He settled for, "Did Vera say anything else to you? About her dream?"

His wife paused, then shook her head. "No. She seemed fine this morning. Why?"

Cass hesitated. Vera seemed fine. She had moved on.

He hadn't.

"Just wondering," he said, taking a sip of coffee. It did nothing to wash away the unease.

The office was its usual dull mess of activity when Cass arrived. Phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the low hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Normal. But as he stepped into his cubicle, Cass felt that uneasy pull at the back of his mind again.

Rich was already there, leaning against Cass's desk, arms crossed.

Cass frowned. "You're here early."

Rich smirked. "Nah, you're just late."

Cass sighed, setting his bag down. "Traffic."

Rich didn't move. He was still watching him, his expression shifting from playful to something else—something more cautious. "Alright, man. Spill."

Cass blinked. "Spill what?"

Rich gestured vaguely at him. "Whatever's going on in that messed-up head of yours. You've been acting weird for weeks now. I thought it was just stress, but you look like you haven't slept in a year."

Cass forced a laugh. "I'm fine."

Rich didn't buy it. "No, you're not." He lowered his voice, leaning in. "I've seen you zoning out. You keep looking over your shoulder like someone's following you. And don't think I haven't noticed you checking your phone every five minutes like you're expecting bad news."

Cass tensed, gripping the edge of his desk. He didn't like how much Rich was noticing. It was dangerous. If Rich started digging, he might start seeing the cracks too.

"You ever feel like…" Cass hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Like something's just…off?"

Rich frowned. "Off how?"

Cass shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Like things aren't where they should be. Or you remember something one way, but everyone else says it's different."

Rich studied him, silent for a beat too long. Then he exhaled. "You're talking about déjà vu?"

Cass shook his head. "Not exactly."

Rich tapped his fingers against the desk. "Look, man. I'm not saying I haven't noticed some weird shit lately, but that's life, right? People misremember things. Streets get renamed. Stores close. Time moves on."

Cass swallowed, his throat dry. No. It's more than that.

"Yeah," he said instead. "Maybe."

Rich wasn't convinced. "If something's wrong, you gotta tell me, man. Don't shut me out."

Cass wanted to. God, he wanted to tell him everything. Wanted someone else to validate that he wasn't losing his mind.

But what if he pulled Rich in too? What if noticing too much was the problem?

"Just tired," Cass said finally. "Too many late nights."

Rich eyed him but didn't push further. "Alright. But if this is some government mind-control conspiracy thing, I wanna know."

Cass smirked despite himself. "Sure. You'll be my first call."

Rich chuckled, but the concern in his eyes lingered. Cass could feel it like a weight pressing down on him.

They worked in relative silence for a while. Cass tried to focus, but the missing alley, the bookstore that no longer existed, Vera's strange dreams—all of it circled in his head like a drain refusing to clear.

Rich, ever observant, picked up on it.

"You keep checking that screen like it owes you money," he said.

Cass exhaled sharply. "Just…making sure something's still there."

Rich raised a brow. "You're creeping me out, man."

Cass hesitated. Maybe this was the moment to push back, to test if Rich had seen things too.

"You ever had something just…change? Like, you wake up and swear something was there before, but now it's gone?"

Rich's smirk faltered, just slightly. His fingers drummed against the desk. "You mean like those weird Mandela effect things?"

Cass considered that. "Yeah. But more personal. Like…your own memories betraying you."

Rich's expression darkened. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, as if deciding how much to say.

Cass watched him carefully. "Rich?"

Finally, Rich exhaled and leaned in. "Alright, look. Since you're being all cryptic—I had this thing happen last week."

Cass's heart jumped to his throat. "What thing?"

Rich shifted uncomfortably. "I swore my uncle called me last Wednesday. We talked for an hour. I even remember him making a joke about my terrible cooking. Next morning? No call log. Nothing."

Cass felt a chill settle into his bones. "And you're sure it happened?"

"Yeah, man." Rich rubbed his face. "I even remember what I was wearing when we talked."

Cass leaned back in his chair, pulse racing. It wasn't just him.

Rich had seen something too.

"And then," Rich continued, voice quieter now, "I tried calling him back."

Cass frowned. "And?"

Rich's face paled. "No answer, the phone number had been disconnected. Later, my mom told me he's been dead for three years."

The office noise faded into nothing. Cass barely registered the people moving around them, the chatter, the ringing phones.

Rich met his gaze, something haunted in his expression. "I talked to him, Cass. I know I did."

Cass swallowed hard.

This wasn't just strange anymore.

This was impossible.

And it was happening to both of them.

End of Chapter 7