The living room feels the same as always - same worn couch, same afternoon light through the blinds, same smell of whatever Nora is pretending to casually make in the kitchen. But your shoes feel loose. Not falling-off loose. Just... wrong. Like they stretched while you were wearing them. Every hour, something slips a little further. Not height, not size - something harder to name. A word you knew this morning feels slippery now. A thought dissolves before you finish it. Nora hasn't said anything yet. But she's barely left the room. You have maybe twenty hours before you won't remember what hours even are. And right now, sixty minutes in, you're still you - stubborn, aware, and watching her watch you.