The hands let go at the same time.
Lucas doesn't notice the gesture itself. He notices the space that opens where contact used to be.
He takes a step forward on reflex, then stops.
Not because anyone tells him to.
Because he doesn't know where he'd go.
He looks around, trying to find a reason to be here. The place doesn't ask for memory. It doesn't offer reference.
Two people stand in front of him. Too close not to have been involved in something. Too distant to feel responsible.
A brief discomfort tightens in his chest.
"How did I get here?"
The question comes out loud. He doesn't remember deciding to speak.
No one answers.
He rubs his face like he's trying to wake up from a thought that lasted too long.
"What was I doing?"
The words land without support.
Lucas looks at them again. Now he feels their silence as something active, not just the absence of a reply.
"Sorry."
His voice comes out overly polite. "If I caused any trouble."
They step back half a step. No expressions change.
Lucas feels a strange urge to explain.
"I must've… gotten lost."
He lets out a short, misplaced laugh. "It happens."
No confirmation. No denial.
The silence doesn't judge. It just records.
Lucas turns before the space can press in again.
His body finds a direction without asking.
His feet follow a path that doesn't require a decision.
He moves through the outside world without registering details. Not because everything feels familiar, but because nothing offers itself as an anchor. The route fits step by step, like he already walked it while thinking about something else.
At an intersection, he pauses for a moment too short to become a decision. Then he keeps going. He doesn't remember choosing.
The sense of displacement doesn't grow. It doesn't fade either. It stays constant, like low background noise that doesn't disappear when a door closes.
Lucas only realizes he's near home when his pace slows on its own.
His hand reaches for the key before he thinks about it.
The door opens without resistance.
Lucas walks in and closes it behind him.
He stands in the middle of the living room for too long.
He doesn't remember walking there.
It doesn't create panic.
Just a quiet misstep, like missing a stair.
Lucas moves through the rooms without a goal. The bedroom looks the same as always. The bathroom too. Nothing is out of place enough to justify the unease.
He sits on the bed still wearing his clothes.
He stares at a neutral spot on the wall. Not a specific place—just where his eyes stop when nothing else offers itself.
Time passes without announcing itself.
Lucas doesn't check the clock. Doesn't change position. His body holds the same angle, like it's waiting for something that never arrives.
At some point, he lies on his side.
He doesn't change clothes. Doesn't turn off the light right away. The lamp stays on too long before he finally reaches over and switches it off.
The darkness doesn't bring rest.
His thoughts don't organize. They don't spiral either. They pass like incomplete images, no beginning, no ending.
Lucas turns once in bed. Then again.
The mattress creaks softly. The sound doesn't bother him. It just exists.
He closes his eyes.
His body relaxes before his mind catches up.
Sleep doesn't come like a fall.
It comes like an interruption.
A clean cut in the flow.
No dream holds. No image continues. If something passes through, it leaves no trace.
His body stays still for hours that never feel like hours.
When Lucas moves again, it's because sound intrudes.
The alarm goes off.
He opens his eyes with the sense that something was left out of place the day before.
He doesn't remember what.
He gets up, gets ready, leaves.
His body runs the sequence without hesitation. Brushes his teeth, grabs his keys, checks his wallet. Every action happens at the right time.
That should be reassuring.
It isn't.
On the way to school, he walks with his attention turned too low. He passes familiar people without recognizing them right away, but reacts in the socially correct timing.
"Morning."
"Morning."
Nothing lingers.
At school, Lucas enters the classroom before the students. He writes the day's lesson on the board. His handwriting comes out steady. Recognizable.
Students arrive, sit, talk quietly.
Lucas starts the class.
His voice sounds too normal.
He explains, asks questions, answers. The flow works. The students follow. No strange interruptions. No misplaced questions.
During the lesson, something stays out of focus.
It isn't memory.
It isn't forgetting.
It feels like part of the day is repeating without the layer that should come with it.
Lucas doesn't try to think about it. He keeps going.
During break, a colleague passes him in the hallway.
"Hey, everything good?"
"Yeah."
The conversation ends there.
No one asks if he's okay.
No one asks if he missed a day.
The institution accepts the day without hesitation.
That starts to bother him.
In the teachers' lounge, Lucas grabs a coffee. It's too hot. He burns his tongue. Brief. He doesn't comment.
Someone mentions a future meeting. Lucas nods. He doesn't remember being invited, but he agrees.
The day moves forward without resistance.
That shouldn't be possible.
During the last class, watching the students in silence, Lucas feels a delay after every thought. Like the idea arrives complete and then something gets removed.
It doesn't hurt.
It doesn't confuse him.
It just doesn't close.
At the end of the day, he leaves school at the usual time.
The walk home happens without notable interruption. His body knows the route better than his attention does.
Wind crosses the street and passes him, carrying something that never quite touches him.
No clear sound.
No word.
Lucas gets home at dusk.
Closes the door.
Leans against it a second longer than necessary.
The space doesn't react the way it should.
It isn't silence.
It isn't darkness.
It feels like the house is waiting for something that didn't come in with him.
Lucas stands there, alert without knowing to what.
He sits on the couch with his phone in his hand without opening any apps.
He stays there.
The feeling never settles into a thought. Doesn't become a memory. Doesn't become a clear question.
It's an emptiness spread through the rooms, like someone stayed there for too long and left without warning.
The routine keeps working.
And still, the house misses someone who always used to fill that space.